


Black (T)

by cincoflex



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: F/M, POV First Person, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different take with a different perspective; AU for Crimson Peak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

That my sister was mad I well knew; had known it for twenty years or more. She disguised her dark nature with ease, wearing a face of civility when among others, playing at modesty as skillfully as she did at the keyboard and with as much success. Lucille knew how to blend in, knew what to say and to whom; she had no trouble being seen as she wanted other to see her: proud but poor. Respectable. Devoted to her younger brother.

On the surface, admirable traits. 

But under the surface . . . far less so.

I am not proud in admitting that I was in Lucille’s thrall for years. She was my protector, my confidant, my friend and then my lover. We grew up together in dark rooms filled with dark moods. Mother and Father were the bookends of neglect and abuse, working in tandem to grind the spirit out of us. Had I been an only child they might have succeeded; my nature has always been gentler than my sister’s.

Lucille, however, was always full of fire, fighting back when she could. She took her share of beatings and mine too, until I refused to let her do it. And there were terrible nights when Father would summon her and she wouldn’t return to the nursery for hours. I would wait up for her, fighting my fear of the dark to be there when she came limping back. Mother would beat Lucille; Father did far worse.

But she survived. Her spirit hardened even as she grew tall and curvaceous. Lucille took comfort from my affection even as she encouraged it in dark ways. For my own part, I confess that as I grew I had all the normal interests and instincts of my sex, and Lucille enjoyed tutoring me in the talents of lust. She teased me, pleasured me and in doing so bound me to her all the more intensely.

Did I know then what we were doing was wrong in the eyes of society? Not at first, but with maturity and education I came to realize it soon enough. At eleven I was dimly aware that my sister and I must keep our nocturnal proclivities a secret; at twelve, I understood it far too well.

When Mother discovered our secret later that same year I knew our world was in terrible jeopardy. Mother locked me in the closet, dragged Lucille out and beat her with the cord of keys until my sister passed out, and then tied her to the bedstead with curtain sash. 

I wouldn’t be touched; with Father gone I was the heir of the house and Mother needed me to keep the claim on Allerdale Hall.

Horrible hours. I clawed at the door, throwing my slight weight against it again and again, trying desperately to reach Lucille, torn between fear for her and fear for what would happen next. My sister was strong, and could move to rage as quickly as the blink of an eye. I heard her rouse herself, called to her but Lucille ignored me and I heard her walk out of the room.

I couldn’t say how much time passed, but when the key turned in the lock I stumbled to my feet to see Lucille, her nightgown splashed with blood, a triumphant smile on her lips. “Thomas,” she murmured. “We are free; come and see.”

The sight of Mother in her evening bath . . . I lost my gorge, turning from the hideous tableaux in the tub, choking in bile-tinted fear and shame. I had feared her yes, but she _had_ been my mother, and as subject to Father’s brutality as we had. I fought panic, aware that while Father’s death had been suspicious, this was open murder and that Lucille would be hanged for it.

We ran. Taking few possessions and with no clear plan we ran only to be caught and taken into custody. My sister did her best to appear innocent, but there was too much evidence against her and too little compassion for her. Lucille was committed to Blackthorne Asylum while I was sent to school.

School. One would think that for a child who’d never socialized with anyone but his sister I’d be further traumatized, but the precise opposite occurred. I found my voice, discovered people who earned my trust and nurtured my talents. I was encouraged to study and enjoyed it. My quiet nature become good manners and my compassion for the opposite sex gained me much favor with women. I read people easily and found it a simple matter to present myself in the best light possible. With that came confidence, ease, poise. I had come through darkness into light, and all should have been right with the world.

But—

Two duties weighed on me; dual burdens that kept me grounded. The first was Allerdale Hall. As a baronet and heir to the estate, I was responsible for it. Father had done his best to drink and gamble away the fortune, leaving precious little behind. There were taxes and upkeep for the clay mine machinery and estate fees and countless other drains upon the meager finances left. I found myself caught in the dilemma of needing to work and not being expected to; my station in society held the assumption that my time was my own.

And the second was Lucille.

If I thought my station in life was difficult, hers was more so. At this point in life Lucille would have been expected to marry. She was after all a titled, eligible young woman with a presentable pedigree, and certainly handsome. Upon reaching her twenty-fifth birthday she was released from Blackthorne and into my custody, albeit reluctantly by the physicians of the institute.

I’d received letters from her during our time apart, notes of affection that bore marks of editing or censoring—I could not tell which. I’d written back to her as supportively as I could, refraining from expressing too much affection lest it be read by others, and always with a curious mingling of shame and lust. My rational mind knew how I must behave, but my body did not always agree, and Lucille’s image occupied my intimate thoughts and private sessions often. Somewhere within the constitution of the Sharpe family lies a darker nature when it comes to passion. The only time I have ever expressed open aggression was when lying with Lucille; she had encouraged me to assert my desires as I wished.

I feared being in her company once more would rekindle our passions . . . a fear that proved true. In her time at Blackthorne, Lucille had not only grown more beautiful, but also more . . . manipulative. I, who had not had physical relations with anyone other than my own hand for the last ten years found myself unable to resist her blatant kisses and caresses, cursing myself after every session and lying to myself that each would be the last.

Lucille enjoyed my torment. “We are _meant_ to be together, Thomas. Your body buried in mine, your heart beating on top of my own,” she would croon as I took her. “Always together, never apart.”

How that phrase filled me with dread. For I loved Lucille, but I had known another life too. I’d spent ten years in a normal world, making friends, studying, enjoying each day. A decade in the light.

But no more. Lucille kept me to herself, carefully intercepting my mail and breaking my engagements and appointments. Friends fell away; correspondences slackened and gradually ended. Lucille insisted we return to Allerdale Hall.

That first night. She wandered our ancestral home, naked and laughing, her hair down and her eyes bright. “Where shall I have you _fuck_ me, my love?” she demanded. “Shall we profane Mother’s bed? Or will you bend me over the balustrade? Or perhaps I simply will get on my hands and knees here on the landing and we can leave the great front doors open as you take me?”

Talk like that terrified and aroused me all in one. I tried to block her way and speak reasonably, but she pressed herself against my body. “We’re home, Thomas. _O_ ur home. Here we can do as we please! I’ve waited a long time for this, suffered and _survived_ little brother, so that I could return here with you!”

I tried to protest, but the gleam in her eyes chilled me, and some small part of my brain understood that the wrong word at this particular moment would ignite a fury I would not withstand. Her caressing hands made me shudder at her touch, and I gave in, my guilt and frustration venting itself in the cruelest kisses I could give.

She gloried in them, urging me to bite, to leave marks on her fair skin and to my shame I did, darkly relishing the way Lucille cried with joy in receiving them. My sister knew well my own inner demons and set them against me that night, leaving me spent and sick by morning.

We could have stayed that way had we any money, but soon enough creditors came calling, bills in hand. I sold off what I could, and there was enough to last a year, but after that we would lose Allerdale Hall. That frightened Lucille.

“You must marry, and well,” She announced to me. “Some older bitch with money and no relatives. Someone impressed with the title and land but uninterested in the marital bed.”

I protested. Marriage was out of the question; I had no intention of playing the gigolo. There was a chance I could make something of the clay mines though, and I tried to explain that to my sister. She listened, grudgingly, pointing out that money was still necessary to build the machine I’d devised. Short of robbery, deception would have to do.

And I knew. Even before I’d agreed to Lucille’s plan, I knew that whoever I married would not . . . live. In the time I’d become reacquainted with my sister I’d come to see that Lucille no longer thought of other people as people. To my sister, people were obstacles or tools or pawns, nothing more. Nothing. Her years at Blackthorne had tempered her perspective into this simple, vicious outlook.

I wish I could blame Father and Mother, or the asylum, but they were only parts of the whole in her education. Lucille herself had always had dark tendencies. Too, I wondered if this scheme was also so she would have something, someone to . . . kill. Can one develop a taste for murder? 

A craving for it?

It was not to be the first time I wondered about it.


	2. Chapter 2

We went to Glasgow. Dreary weather but fascinating city. I’d always longed to travel and I enjoyed the trip. Through renewed acquaintances I garnered invitations and there met Margaret. I genuinely liked her. She was pleasant and sweet; touched by my attentions and more than willing to put herself and her fortune into my hands. When I explained my plans for the clay extractor, Margaret supported me fully; a kindness I didn’t deserve. 

It was odd to move in polite society again; more so with Lucille on the edge, watching my every move. I felt like an organ grinder’s monkey, performing for an audience in the day and for Lucille at night. She clung to me in private, catered to my preferences in ways that shame me even now. All enticements to secure Margaret and bring her back to Allerdale Hall.

And so I married Miss McDermot in a civil ceremony, with Lucille and a single clerk as witnesses. Margaret was delighted, chirping about how lucky she was to have saved herself for someone so perfect in every way. Each compliment burns me like acid now in memory. Perfect? Hardly. I was playing a part, closing my eyes to her future in an attempt to focus on my own. Anything I say now is but a sad and sorry attempt at justification for acts that can never be justified. 

I knew it then, and now.

At home, Lucille changed, comfortable in her lair once more. She became overly solicitous to Margaret, offering her tea and meals brought on trays. My wife grew sicker and sicker. I threw myself into building the extractor, willfully ignoring the slow poisoning that my sister reveled in. Lucille began to taunt Margaret as well, telling her increasingly sordid tales of our childhood and of her time at Blackthorne. The former stories I knew, but latter, especially about the Asylum shocked me . . . mostly because of what my sister had instigated and carried out while she was there.

Apparently Blackthorne proved to be an excellent training ground in sadistic pastimes, and Lucille had learned much about inflicting anguish to the spirit, mind, and body. When I asked directly, my sister brushed away my questions, but when I eavesdropped, I heard sickening recollections told in that sweet, low voice of hers and the dichotomy left me shaken.

Margaret died a broken woman. Lucille rolled the body onto a sheet on the floor, dragging it to the elevator and then down to the mines in the basement. Somewhere along the way the body must have made some sound, and in a fury Lucille crushed Margaret’s face with a shovel. I came across my sister washing the tool at the pump, pleased with herself as she told me what she’d done.

For three days I avoided my sister, unable to face her in the light of her atrocity. Given what we’d gone through together in our younger days I understood what it took to survive at times, but this was difficult to stomach. In the end, though, Lucille played my favorite tunes and cooked my favorite meals, biding her time. Our isolation made it easy for her to coerce and convince me to her way of thinking . . . as she always did. 

The money lasted nearly a year and a half, but Lucille grew restless well before that. I offered to take her to Glasgow again, or Manchester, but Lucille set her sights on Paris. “After all, you’re so very debonair, sweet brother,” she told me, brushing back my hair. “Your French is sweet, and your smile enchanting. You will have your pick of the fat rich bitches there for the season.”

My machine was half-built; I had the model nearly ready to run and my desire to show it off overruled my common sense; I agreed to the Paris trip. Half-jokingly I suggested to my sister that perhaps this time _she_ ought to marry, and received an unexpectedly brutal slap across the face. It stung and stunned me; I stared at her in shock.

And fear.

Her face was an icy sculpture and her eyes blazed in her fury. “I will _never_ submit myself to another man’s prick again, do you hear me! Never! The world is full of vile, vicious violent brutes, Thomas! Men who have already used me far too often for their foul desires! Only _you_ are worthy of me! Only you!”

Then she burst into tears, which frightened me more than the slap.

Lucille dropped to her knees and threw her arms around my waist, sobbing, her face pressed against me. I shifted, not sure what to do, but my sister did. The heat of her breath through the fabric of my trousers, the press of her mouth against the quickly straining cloth . . . a perfect torment as she continued to cry, rubbing her face against the heavy evidence of my arousal. I didn’t _dare_ move, caught between panic and desire as Lucille deftly dried her face on my trousers, her actions far less frantic now, but still deliberate.

Still torturous. 

What does it say of me that the edge of that uncertainty had its own exquisite pleasure? That I longed for my sister even as I dreaded her? All I know is that even though our love was twisted and corrupt, it sated some dark part of me deep within.

In Paris we moved in sedate company, and my sister chanced on an invalid matron whose friendship she cultivated. Pamela was painfully shy, the result of her paralysis, but Lucille managed to draw her out, and soon introduced me. With careful attention and flattery it was easy to win the woman over, even though it pained me to do so. Pamela was frivolous and mild, a woman with no great depth but a certain quiet charm. She was fascinated with all sorts of gadgetry and adored the model of my extractor, praising it beyond its merit. I managed to repair her wax cylinder recorder for her, which earned me a great deal of affection. 

Pamela had been reluctant to accept my proposal of marriage, sadly confessing that because of her infirmity she would never be able to fulfill her intimate duties, but I reassured her that between her and my sister I had all the family I would ever need—a blackly true statement, but it was enough to win her heart and she consented to be my wife.

Within a month we married, our whirlwind courtship orchestrated by Lucille, who also oversaw all the little details including Pamela’s estate and will instructions among other matters. We were anxious to leave Paris and return to Allerdale Hall before the winter, but there was another reason for our departure as well.

Lucille had taken to enjoying long walks through some of the parks throughout the city. On those occasions she took with her little paper sacks of peppermint humbugs to hand out to various urchins who approached her. After the first reports in the newspapers, I confronted my sister, who coolly informed me that children were always too trusting.

We packed and left, making the journey to England and ultimately home at a slower pace because of Pamela’s needs. Lucille grew impatient, clearly wanting to be home but unable to drop her mask of civility in public. Consequently she had me lace her more and more tightly into her dresses, taking strange comfort in the grip of her corset. 

It was a terrible winter. The chill and the snow lay heavily over our corner of Cumbria. Allerdale Hall was as cold and lifeless as a tomb most of the time. Pamela’s cough grew worse; between the chill and the tea she faded quickly. As the end grew near, Lucille grew more restless, more animated. She flirted with me in front of my poor wife, and chattered like a bird. I took a day’s trip to Carlisle to deliver specifications for the extractor; when I returned, Pamela was dead.

Lucille relished the re-telling, seating me on the edge of the master bed. “She wanted to go downstairs, so . . . I helped her down. Of course she wanted to use the elevator, as Mother had, but I told Pamela it wasn’t working; that we would have to be careful with the wheelchair. _Such_ a pity that the runners have mothholes in them, and that they snag the chair wheels so easily. She tumbled down a long, long way. When I reached her, she was lying there, barely breathing, in such pain! Truly Thomas it was an act of mercy on my part to free her from all that.”

Her voice was soft and slow, so full of tenderness that I was almost lulled into agreeing. Merciful release . . . it sounded almost reasonable when she spoke that way, and I might have succumbed except for the excited glitter in Lucille’s eyes, and the way she slid her hands over my body. I caught them, halting her seduction. “Lucille!”

“She was going to die anyway,” my sister reminded me. “Always making those recordings, propelling herself around in that chair, needing so much _help_ for every little thing, just like Mother! Well those days are over, and now it is simply you, and I, and Pamela’s money.”

And for a long time that was true, but once again time and fate were against us. Within a year, I learned that the company I’d been working with went bankrupt, leaving me with plans but no parts, and far more disastrously . . . .

Lucille conceived.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you folks for the lovely comments--I really appreciate your insights!

When Lucille told me I fell into a strange euphoric panic. Everything seemed unreal to me . . . more so than usual. I spent nearly a week in a daze, unable to comprehend the shift in our paradigm. The idea that my sister and I had created a new life together seemed the most terrifying event yet to befall us.

I wanted it to die. I wanted it to live. I wanted desperately to leave England with Lucille and pass her off as my wife in some new place where we could have a chance at a normal life. To have a family in a place of light and peace and warmth. Within me I knew that nothing conceived on this crimson peak could escape the red taint of our lineage, but I prayed for it.

Lucille would have none of my suggestions. Her bond to Allerdale Hall was forged in dark iron, a twisted loyalty born of pride-filled pain. Here she lived in the victory of her survival every day. Each stroll through the rooms was a little parade of triumph in her mind, triumph over our parents and anyone else who stood in her way. She swore she would die if she left Allerdale for good, and made me promise not to sell it under any circumstance.

Not that there would be buyers. If there were any out there, they certainly wouldn't want the house. It stood in the way, on top of the original mines like a rotting black crown. I could never fathom the reasons why my ancestors chose to burrow under the very home they lived in, but I suppose that too, was part of the madness. Like Rodrick and Madeline, we were trapped in our own instabilities both of the house and the heart.

With funds low again, and foreseeable expenses now on the horizon, Lucille once again suggested I ensnare yet another spinster. I balked, pointing out that a trip now would be risky, but my sister suggested a warmer clime, choosing Milan as a likely destination. That, at least appealed to me, and I eventually agreed, hoping to see some of the glories of the Roman engineering as well as her treasures.

We set out, under the fabrication of a dutiful brother taking his newly widowed sister on a trip to ease her mourning. Lucille refused to see a physician and dosed herself with medications to cope with her nearly daily nausea while I did my best to be supportive of her. By the time we arrived in Milan her stomach had settled, but she maintained a pallor that worried me.

Still, Lucille did her part, and managed to gain the compassion of several ladies at the hotel where we’d chosen to stay. Widowhood allowed her sympathy and confidences; through those we discovered Miss Sciotti, who took a protective interest in both of us. Enola, as she urged us to call her, was less naïve than either Margaret or Pamela, but still susceptible to flattery. She praised me as an excellent brother, and our mutual concern for my sister allowed me the opportunity to convince her of my growing affection over the course of several weeks.

Enola and I wed in Italy, and I resorted to getting her dead drunk for our wedding night, with Lucille disrobing her to leave my wife with the impression we’d consummated our marriage. The only light moment was in the number of bottles of Pinot Bianca required to do so: four and a half. Lucille and I had the other half of the last bottle, my sister laughing and toasting our success.

Apparently the aftereffects of the wine were enough to keep Enola from pressing her affections, and I made it up in many other ways, particularly since her finances paid for the first working model of my machine. I even bought her a puppy—a Papillion. 

At this point it was becoming difficult to hide Lucille’s condition despite her urgings for me to keep lacing her tightly. In a farce worthy of the stage, my sister ‘confessed’ to Enola that she thought her late husband might have left her a last memory. Enola in turn came to me and told me that we must help Lucille through the delivery of her final ‘gift.’

Of course I assured both of them, and after Enola packed her trunk, back to England we went.  
As Lucille’s lying-in came closer, I found myself seriously considering my new role. I was to be a father. A far better father than my own. A supportive and kind father. A patient father. All of these promises I made to myself seemed so grand and noble, and I wanted desperately for them to be true. I wrote to brick manufacturers and machinists, I tried to secure contracts for future extractions, making trips and sketching new designs.

And Enola drank tea with Lucille.

As for Lucille, she fretted. The loss of her shape irritated her and it was all I could do to convince her that I still loved her. We had to be cautious, and there were nights when it was difficult to do, but on the whole I worked to keep her sated. There was another lust rising that I couldn’t fulfill though, and I saw it in Lucille’s eyes every time she jarred and pinned another moth. The way she would watch each trapped insect squirm and die left me tense.

“They never see it happening,” Lucille would say. “The glass tricks them, and they think they’re free. It slowly dawns on them though, and they struggle. Not for very long though. I _do_ wish it was longer.”

I reminded her that perhaps toying with poison wasn’t the safest thing with a baby on the way but she shrugged that away. “I’m strong. Our baby shall be too.”

But he wasn’t.

How it hurts to remember that.

Lucille raged all through the birthing, shrieking like an animal, her curses echoing throughout the house. I begged her to let me call a doctor but she refused, threatening to kill herself if I did so. Enola tried to help, but she was already terribly weak, and I could see the fear in her now, the distrust in her eyes. Nevertheless between the two of us helping Lucille, we managed to deliver the baby.

So small and so twisted; a feeble child even to my untrained gaze, but his very helplessness brought forth a tender urge within me to protect him. I swaddled and held him, aware that he had the same dark tresses and pale complexion that Lucille and I shared.

“Our son!” my sister called out, making Enola flinch. It was clear to me that those words confirmed my wife’s suspicions. She avoided my gaze even as she took the child, cooing gently to him. I tried to make Lucille comfortable; she was weak and exhausted from her long ordeal. 

“Is he not beautiful? Tell me he’s perfect!” Lucille demanded, her eyes very liquid and bright. “Like you, Thomas. Exactly so!”

“He’s wonderful,” I assured her. “You must rest, Lucille, shhhhhhhhh . . .”

For the next six days the three of us were bound together by the baby. Lucille tried to nurse him; Enola worked to keep him clean and warm; I held him for hours and hummed the lullaby I knew so well. But nature was not kind, and he faded, his eyes dulling over and his movements becoming weaker and slower. I knew he would not live, and tried to prepare myself for his passing, but he had found his way into my heart and the pain had already begun.

On the seventh morning I found Lucille with the baby at her breast, streaks of milk rolling down his cheeks and chin, drops spilling on the coverlet. Lucille seemed oblivious to his passing, humming and cooing until I tried to take the body from her. She looked up, her smile angelic.

“He sleeps now. Forever. My little angel will forever be _our_ angel.”

I saw then the way his face stayed flushed, and knew that Lucille had squeezed him close to her.  
Too close, too long for him to breathe.

I took him from her and entombed him in the family mausoleum, wrapping him in my best shirt and kissing him before sliding the stone lid closed and locking the door. I lost the ability to stand and slid down the door, weeping as I have never wept before, all of my hope draining away in that little innocent’s death.

Hours later Enola fetched me; Lucille needed me and I rose and went.

My wife died two weeks later. She drank more and more tea, willingly, her spirits already dead. Lucille rallied however, and seemed to have gained a new serenity in the aftermath of this double tragedy. I found her roaming through Allerdale Hall like a pale goddess, smiling at nothing. She was gentle with me, and I, _I_ who had no one else to turn to once again found comfort in the darkness of her arms.

What she did with Enola’s body I did not ask, although I suspected every time I moved through the basement level.

Had it not been for a first few successes with the extractor I would have sunk into sadness, but I deliberately kept busy, mostly to avoid thinking . . . and feeling. It was a way of numbing myself, of keeping emotions at bay and managing them I suppose. For a long time it seemed the best remedy, although in the back of mind I began to consider . . . other plans.

Foolish plans that would never come to fruition of course. I was as bound to my sister as she was to Allerdale Hall, so the chain stayed unbroken even as once again the money dwindled away.  
When Lucille once again proposed we look for someone, I agreed. We went to London and found the prospects slim there, although there were several Americans on tour, and among them was a widow of a certain age with her daughter. Lucille considered the McMichaels—both of them-- likely candidates, although she wasn’t sure who I should pursue. “The _old_ bitch is all but ready to throw herself at you, but won’t do it until the _ugly_ bitch is married,” she snidely informed me. “Although if you go for the ugly one, then you’ll certainly be inheriting alongside the brother.”

I would have been happy to pass on the pair, but the fortune in question was considerable. Lucille decided we would accept their invitation to meet with them in America and single out the daughter then. I dimly agreed, more interested in the businessmen I might meet on the trip, and wondering if I could convince anyone in Buffalo to invest in my clay extractor. On a chance, I packed the model along with my plans, hoping for the best.


	4. Chapter 4

The trip to America was invigorating. I found myself intrigued by the very newness of the place; by the bright brashness of the people there. In contrast with the other places we’d gone, the United States held a sense of optimism I’d found sorely lacking in Paris and Milan. Consequently my mood lightened when we arrived.

In contrast, Lucille found our destination to be coarse and considered Buffalo to be vulgar. In private she turned her nose up at the newness of the buildings and the social set there, sometimes imitating Mrs. McMichael to make me laugh. I confess I did, too; my sister had a cruel sense of humor but it could be very accurate at times. She and I settled into our hotel and from the first day we began receiving invitations from both the McMichaels and their friends. Lucille was quick to sort through them, tossing away the ones she felt were without merit.

In the meantime I took a long look at the prospects for my extractor with a more careful eye. There were several distinguished businessmen in the city, many well-known in Europe, and I settled on a short list, with Mr. Carter Cushing’s name at the top. He seemed the most prominent, and I felt that if I could convince him to invest, that he would very likely bring in others as well. Clearly the forward-looking cheer that seemed to infuse the city infused me as well, and I enjoyed the prospect of meeting him.

My good mood, seemed to irritate my sister, however, and she reminded me that the primary reason we were here was to secure one of the McMichaels. We had decided on the daughter, Eunice. She was fair enough I suppose, although given to giggling and chatter. In all our times together most conversations seemed to center on fashions or society or my title, none of which were of particular interest to me. Lucille sneeringly referred to her as ‘hatchet-faced’ which struck me as more vindictive than usual this time. Generally when we made a trip I was aware of Lucille’s inclination to jealousy, and had to spend a portion of my time placating her as well, which added to my overall difficulties.

The fact that I had felt _no_ attraction at all to Eunice did not appease Lucille, who clearly preferred it when we chose older women to seduce. But while it might be just as easy to convince Mrs. McMichael to marry me, the complications of severing her ties to her children might prove difficult, and Lucille felt it would be far simpler to deal with Eunice, who would be expected to leave home once married.

I remember the morning I set out for my appointment with Mr. Cushing. I’d slept well and felt a degree of confidence I hadn’t had in years; clearly America agreed with me. I set out, making sure to arrive early and strode in, sure of myself, aware that while my attire might be slightly out of fashion, my presentation would be perfect. When I reached the first desk I looked down . . . 

And into the sweetest brown eyes I had ever seen.

It took me a few seconds to speak, so transfixed was I by the pert little woman looking up at me through gold framed spectacles that only enhanced her clear gaze. I found my voice, automatically putting charm into my words out of habit even as I studied her.

Golden. That then and forever would be my first impression of Edith. Sweet, clear gold: her hair, her complexion, her guarded smile. When I noted the typed pages, and caught the word ‘ghost’ it dawned on me that whoever this was, she _wrote_ , which further endeared her to me. 

Her initial manner, which had been almost impertinent upon hearing my name and title changed visibly when I commented on the work in her hands. She grew . . . shy, a delightfully unexpected reaction. I drank her in like the nectar she was, so caught up in the moment that when Mr. Cushing greeted me I found myself off-guard. Clearly he had caught our exchange and disapproved of it; a disapproval that carried over through my presentation.

Alas, one of the hard truths of life is that captains of industry cannot be charmed.

I gave my presentation to that circle of dour faces, knowing within minutes that it was a doomed effort, and that no matter what else I said, they were not interested in a mining operation centered in another country. The deepest cut was still to come when Mr. Cushing himself proceeded to denigrate me and project based solely on my station in life rather than any integral or mechanical fault with the scheme.

All of this in front of Edith.

Had she not been there, had I not met her I might have graciously withdrawn to lick my wounds and concentrate on the true reason Lucille and I were in Buffalo. But she _was_ there, and a surge of my own pride rose within me—not for Edith but _because_ of her. I spoke my mind clearly and sharply to her father, receiving a steady look in return that gave me to know I had not made a friend of him.

No matter. I went back to the hotel, my mind caught up in thoughts of Edith Cushing. I’d never felt this way upon a first meeting with anyone, and it left me slightly giddy. When Lucille greeted me and asked how matters had gone I told her of Cushing’s crushing response. Her eyes blazed, and it felt gratifying to know my sister took the insult as cuttingly as I had. 

Still, it left me an opening and I cleared my throat. “He has a daughter, whom I met on my way to the meeting.”

Lucille stared at me. “Pretty?”

“Nothing like you,” I assured her, meaning it in many different ways. 

That seemed to mollify her, and she smiled, considering my words. “Cushing _is_ exceedingly rich; wealthier than the McMichaels. Maybe you won’t have to marry Eunice after all.”

That had _not_ been my intention; I’d mentioned Edith to give myself excuse to speak with her socially, but my sister’s scheme suddenly put matters in a different and dangerous course. And yet . . . and yet the tiniest chance to spend time with Edith drove me to smile with hope at Lucille.

“The ball tonight; I’m sure she’ll be there and then we can decide,” my sister murmured. “One or the other; we must begin soon.” 

I agreed, feeling torn inside. To see Edith again would be wonderful; to court her under dangerously false intentions . . . I pushed, _shoved_ the thoughts aside, too taken with the former to worry about the latter at the moment. Pleading a headache I left my sister to attend tea with new acquaintances and escaped to my suite. There, I stretched out and closed my eyes, trying to rest and not fully succeeding.

I let myself escape in flights of fancy, dreams that I’d never dare speak. Going west in this country, far from Cumbria and the albatross of Allerdale Hall, earning a fortune from my extractor . . . and getting to know Edith Cushing. Those thoughts, especially the last one did much to lighten my mood.

It rained. I’d sent Lucille ahead to the ball, reminding her that she was to perform at Mrs. McMichael’s request. Lucille was peevish but complied, urging me to join her as soon as possible. She looked striking in red, which made her pale complexion and dark hair unforgettable, but I also knew that any man trying to approach her would be turned away, and that her aloofness would put a chill through any attempts at conversation. I was left to smooth over matters with charm.

It had always been that way whenever we were in public, but that night I had an agenda. Once my sister’s carriage left, I arranged for my own ride to take me to the Cushing mansion. We arrived in time for me to see Carter Cushing and a young man I dimly recognized as Mrs. McMichael’s son climb into a motor car and drive off. Edith was not with them, I noted with gladness. I paid the driver, instructing him to wait, and presented myself at the door, giving the maid a sincere smile and a firm request.

My wait was not long.

Edith came down the stairs, and she was still as golden to me as before, although with a much more amusing expression of consternation on her face. There and then I realized I loved her countenance which was honest and open. Her small round nose and curved lips; her child-like chin and again, those earnest brown eyes. She reminded me a bit of the china shepherdess figurines I’d seen on mantelpieces.

Delicate but strong.

I explained my fabricated dilemma, putting as much earnestness as I could into my tone. For the first time I _meant_ the flattery I murmured, and making Edith blush delighted me. She agreed, reluctantly, to accompany me to the ball. I settled in to wait, feeling triumphant.

When she appeared a scant twenty minutes later I found myself astounded at how quickly she’d transformed herself from a demure figurine to a delicate dove. As I stood watching her descend the stairs I felt my heart beating against my ribs, and a surge of tenderness engulfed me in a way I’d never experienced before. Edith looked up at me, and the subtle strands of our mutual attraction encircled us then; the first lines of a glittering bond made of wonder and joy.

We spoke shyly of books in the carriage and how I wished that the ride could have lasted much longer than it did. Edith surprised me, revealing a love of mysteries and tales of the supernatural. I confessed my own interest in the same, along with good historical novels and when I mentioned how many books Allerdale Hall had, she sighed with envy, amusing me. 

When at last we reached our destination, I helped her out of the carriage and up to the foyer, taking and tucking her arm in my own. In a voice for her ears alone I told her, “Thank you; now we’re going to need courage if we’re to face Mrs. McMichael.”

“Into the lionesses’ den,” she murmured back, winning yet another corner of my heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. McMichael wasn’t pleased when I arrived with Edith on my arm but being a proper hostess she pretended she was. I rather enjoyed standing up to her in that moment; more so when she singled me out to demonstrate the waltz. Both she and Eunice were sure of whom I would pick as my partner but I had other plans and boldly asked Edith instead.

She tried to turn me down, but I’d seen her foot tapping and knew Edith felt the music as much as I did. I persisted, holding out until she agreed. I know she felt the dour disapproval of our hostess and her disappointed daughter; I myself felt Lucille’s gaze weighing on me heavily too. Nevertheless, I swept Edith into the dance and off we went.

Glorious. Edith danced like an angel, following my lead without the slightest hesitation. Shyly she began to smile, and when she did, the rest of the world vanished for me. Never have I felt so free, so . . . happy. Lucille and I had practiced waltzing often when we were younger, and did so before coming to America just for a moment like this, but this dance was the first I’d ever done for the simple joy of moving with a perfect partner.

And Edith surely was that. I admired her forthright manner, her habit of speaking when she had something to say instead of simply chattering constantly as other women did. I appreciated the way she put her full attention on me when I spoke, and made deep and meaningful responses. She . . . challenged me. Asked me _why_ I held this opinion or that view, and over the next few weeks I found myself delighted to be drawn into long conversations with her. 

Edith even agreed to let me read her manuscript and I enjoyed it very much, appreciating her trust as much as her writing. She had talent, and I had no doubt she would become published soon. Lucille grudgingly permitted me time to read, not interested in the manuscript herself. She still fretted over our change of plans, but agreed that dealing with a single relative would be simpler in the long run. 

However, Edith’s youth and attractiveness irritated my sister and Lucille took to clinging to me in private, continually demanding affection. I gave it, hiding my reluctance lest I anger her. In truth it was becoming difficult to respond to Lucille as I once had; since the death of our child, I no longer felt the lust I once had for her. Was it guilt, regret, condemnation? I cannot say, but I do know that more and more often I closed my eyes when we coupled, and found excuses to avoid intimacy whenever I could.

Still, just at the point in our visit when Lucille urged me to propose to Edith, fate stepped in with the formidable presence of Carter Cushing. He called my sister and me into his study, confronting us with evidence of our past . . . schemes. This was unexpected; I had thought us safe from detection but apparently Mr. Cushing had hired a professional to investigate us.

For the first time I felt deep and sincere regret. While I did not like Mr. Cushing on a personal level, I respected him and I knew how much Edith loved her father. Still, we were spotted for what we truly were, and matters were not helped when he bought us off with contemptuous orders to break with his daughter and leave at once. My sister’s eyes blazed again; a warning I didn’t heed at the time. I did as commanded, announcing our departure before dinner and later—

The pain in breaking Edith’s tender heart tore at my own. I cut her quickly, reaching for the one bit of trust she’d had in me—confidence in her writing—and slashed it publicly, all the quicker to be done with it. The lies I spewed that night shame me still, and her small slap was far, far less than I deserved for my boorish behavior. My tears in that moment weren’t for my physical pain, but for the jagged cracks in my heart, leaking hope, love, and honor.

I accused Edith of sentimentality, but I had much of my own to account for.

At the hotel, Lucille raged. She arranged for us to leave, and strode around her suite, picking up objects and throwing them. I sat in silent misery, too wrapped up in my own failure to note when her steps slowed and her ire calmed, but it did. She sat beside me and cradled me as she did when I was younger, soothing me.

“You will write a letter to Edith, and return it with her manuscript,” Lucille ordered. “She will come to find you.”

“Why?” I asked. “Not even the sweetest note can mend her heart now.”

“Because she _loves_ you,” Lucille pointed out in irritation. “The little mouse is besotted with you and she likes to defy her father. Write the note, Thomas and she will come. And when she does, marry her as soon as you can.”

My sister then smiled at me in a way that told me she had a plan and that I would be better off not asking what it was. A chill ran through me, but I went to fetch a sheet of stationary, hoping against hope.

Lucille told me she would leave on the early ship and go on ahead to Allerdale Hall, as arranged, and would look for my arrival a week later. She then set off to pack the trunks, and left me to compose my note.

It was only later that I realized that one of my suits was missing.

Late the next morning I waited in the lobby of the hotel, wondering if my pitiful letter could even begin to undo the damage of the night before. I paced a bit, wishing I could tell Edith the truth. All the truths, all the knotted, twisted, sordid truths that Lucille and I had woven through our lives. Ridiculous of course, utterly ridiculous. A spirit as brave and bright as Edith would never be able to understand how the very air of Allerdale Hall poisoned the soul, how the years of misery and hardship there had forged my sister into the creature she was.

Had made me what _I_ was.

And yet I could love. I did love. I wanted Edith to be happy. Selfishly I wanted to be the source of her happiness, her love. More than anything else I wanted to love and be loved by Edith, full measure to measure. The thought of her seeing her each day, of lying next to her each night . . . 

“Thomas!” I heard her voice, and turned. She ran to me, an undignified action but both of us were beyond caring. I spoke to her, not even remembering what I said as I stared down into her bright eyes, and drifted closer, desperate, longing, eager . . . I kissed her.

It was undignified, rude, boorish and unforgivable to do so in public and yet nothing else mattered to me in that moment but Edith. Soft, soft lips, a sweet taste of rosewater and a hint of perfume. Tenderness surged through me, igniting my soul. Edith! I felt her kiss me in return, and like our dance, our kiss became an easy, natural act between us. A promise.

When we regained our senses, though, we had no time to consider what had just passed between us. I looked up and over her shoulder to see McMichael standing there, his expression bleak and his first words devastating.

The minute I saw the body of Carter Cushing I knew. The degree of violence visited on that once strong frame told me exactly what Lucille had done, and when the attending physicians spoke of an accident I stayed silent. McMichael was suspicious and wanted to examine the body further, a move that Edith objected to strenuously. Stepping in, I put an arm around her and turned her from the body, aware that McMichael realized his mistake too late. 

I felt a rush of emotions then— dull anger at Lucille for the murder of a man who had done nothing more than protect his daughter, sorrow for Edith’s loss, relief that her father clearly had not told her anything about the night before and a sense of pride in being the person Edith now clung to. Lucille’s anger and pride had created a terrible advantage for me, and I hated myself for taking it just as much as I willingly gave my heart to Edith in that moment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you readers--your feedback means the world to me!

The week that followed was a flurry of sorrowful activity; arranging the funeral service, meeting with lawyers and those who worked directly with Edith’s father, dealing with the never-ending visitors who came to cluck and sit with Edith in the parlor, but through it all I was there, helping where I could. The way Edith rose above this tragedy made my admiration for her grow. I pushed away my sense of guilt with the thought that although I had suspicions about Carter Cushing’s death, I did not actually _know_ the circumstances. A feeble excuse but by this point I didn’t care; I was in love.

Love. An odd state of being, one that lifts one’s heart like a bird in flight, and an emotion I had not experienced to quite this degree or style. I loved Lucille, but that love was murkier; a product of loneliness and mutual need, borne of our suffering and physical desire. It was the shadow to what I felt for Edith in many ways; the black moth to her butterfly. 

That’s not to say I didn’t desire Edith; I did. The very thought of making love to her was highly arousing and I indulged myself in many fantasies in that regard. Her innocence held an erotic charm for me, as did her forthright manner, and I suspected we would have much to teach each other once we were married . . . 

Lessons that were _not_ supposed to happen.

Lucille had made me promise her that I would be faithful and never fall in love with any of my wives. Until now that had been easy to keep; much as I had liked the three women I’d married, none of them had actually touched my heart. They had been like aunts to me, I suppose, and now in my new state of bliss, I felt appalled when I realized how cruelly I had used them. The realization stung, and the remorse burned; how could I have done what I did?

Lucille was a large part of that. When I was with her, she had a way of making the most unreasonable plans seem logical, even necessary. I had been trained in the lifelong habit of agreeing with her and letting her direct me in all matters through her kisses and threats, her rages and caresses. Time after time Lucille reminded me that she lived for me, that I was the _only_ one she would ever love, and that no-one, _no-one_ would ever love me as much as she did.

It was easy to believe her.

Loathe as I was to admit it, though, I held a large part of responsibility too for allowing my sister to overrule my common sense and decency. Away from Lucille I could see myself truly; around her, it was easy to blind myself to my own faults. I should have stood up to my sister when she was first released to me, but I did not, and now I was reaping a bitter harvest for that folly.

Edith proposed to _me_ on the wet morning two days before her father’s interment. She listened to me stumble through the beginning of my own request for her hand, and calmly took the garnet cabochon ring before I could finish speaking. “I want to marry you, Thomas,” she told me in that direct way of hers. “I know people will tell me it’s too soon for me to know my own mind and heart, but I do, despite everything.”

I should have been calm and pleased, but instead I blushed like a boy, and stammered my affirmation, thrilled by the gentle delight in her expression. She kissed me, asked if we could go to the chambers of a judge her father had known and proceed with the ceremony straightaway. I nodded, too overwhelmed for a moment to speak. 

And so we were married. I managed to respond to the questions put before me by the judge, who seemed torn between suspicion and sentiment, and Edith answered the same questions without hesitation. We signed the document, and she kissed me; a small sweet kiss, but so full of love it hit me like wine, leaving me breathless and giddy. When we left, certificate in hand, I was seized by a wild urge to simply pack my wife up and leave.

Oh to go _anywhere_ but England!

So many destinations tempted me: the West; South America; the wilds of Africa or Egypt; the Continent proper. I would have been happy sailing the Nile, or climbing Kilimanjaro or drinking Oolong in Hong Kong for that matter; with Edith by my side I felt any one of them could be our home, happily and forever. 

But I could not. Not with Lucille waiting back at Allerdale Hall. Guilt and fear were the twin ropes binding me to her, and even stretched at this distance I felt my responsibility like an anchor at her feet. So with reluctance I arranged for our passage to England, securing us train tickets to New York City, and then a first-class stateroom on the _SS Morgana_ bound for London. The booking agent informed me the trip would take at least a week give or take the weather, news that left me feeling a peculiar tension in my stomach.

A week alone with Edith. In close quarters.

This would be tricky to navigate on more levels than I cared to admit to myself; I hadn’t foreseen this tender trap, and I suppose Lucille hadn’t either. In my previous marriages, we’d always traveled together, and what time I spent with my wives had always been chaste; indeed, it had been a simple matter to stay chaste with them. But Edith . . . all I could do would be to remind us both that we were in mourning, and hope for the best. 

Doctor McMichael joined us on the train and saw us off on the ship; his mother and sister couldn’t be bothered to send their good wishes let alone show up, not that I either blamed them or cared. Edith had already made her goodbyes to friends with promises to write, and I waited at a distance while she bid the doctor adieu. It piqued me a bit at how close they stood, and when Edith kissed his cheek I tried not to bristle, but it was surprisingly difficult.

Another aspect of love, I realized with wry amusement. Possessiveness. I’d never had any reason to feel possessive of Lucille; she had never shown the slightest interest in another man all our lives, and any man who dared an attempt to know her better was rebuffed soundly. I suppose it all traced back to Father, of course, as so many matters did. Still, it was an interesting sensation, this slight jealousy, and I laughed at myself for enjoying it.

When the ship finally got underway, Edith and I located our stateroom and found our luggage had been delivered, along with a maid to help unpack. Edith dismissed me, urging me to explore and return in an hour’s time, so I left her there, trying very hard not to think about the large bed that occupied the back of the room. Fresh air helped, and I walked the promenade deck, taking note of the layout of the _Morgana_ to change my thoughts. The wind was brisk, and few people were out at this point in the morning, so I had little company as I strode along. 

I watched New York skyline disappear in the distance, slipping into the low fog on the horizon, feeling a pang of melancholy. We’d had no time to explore that grand city and I wondered if Edith and I would ever have a chance to correct that oversight. Instantly in my head I could hear my sister snarl that I was being a fool; that Edith was only the means to an end.

My fingers curled around the icy rail, and I allowed myself to consider that although I’d lived out this arrangement three times before, perhaps I was due a charm. Perhaps Lucille would grow to appreciate Edith, perhaps the three of us might become a family in truth, and make Allerdale’s mines a shining success . . .

But I doubted it. 

It was then, looking out over the grey and chilly waters that I acknowledged to myself that if anything were to change in this drama, then _I_ would have to be the one make it happen, and that would require under-utilized virtues within myself.

Honesty, for one.


	7. Chapter 7

As evening approached we dressed for dinner. I found myself charmed by Edith’s hair, which hung like a rippled waterfall of gold to her waist. Having never seen it down of course, it fascinated me and I watched her brush it out before artfully pinning it up again in a modest style. She seemed amused by the way I watched her, smiling in the mirror at my reflection. 

“My mother’s hair was the same,” she told me in a shy voice. “My father used to call it a paradox; light and heavy at the same time.”

“It’s lovely,” I told her, and turned to my own toilette as I chose a better waistcoat. We moved around each other in the cabin with a certain degree of awkwardness, aware of each other and yet both of us equally bashful. I had more reason to be on my guard, and delightful sights like Edith’s hair did not make matters any easier for me. 

We strolled to the dining room, a large long affair one deck below us, off of the main stairwell, where the maitre‘d greeted us cordially. We were escorted to a cushioned booth in the far corner, given wine lists and menus to peruse and left on our own for the moment. I looked over at her, and in that moment I could see everything in her face: love, delight, hope and desire blended into one little smile. 

How? _How_ was she able to reduce me to a fool so easily, so quickly? I’d thought myself a sophisticated gentleman well-versed in the harsher side of life, but in Edith’s presence all of that washed away. The bright trust in her face humbled me. I took her hand across the table and raised it to my lips, kissing it, feeling how warm it was.

“I adore you,” I whispered.

She held my gaze. “It’s quite mutual,” Edith whispered back in a solemn little tone, and then broke into a soft giggle, which made me chuckle in return. We released hands only when the waiter returned, both of us a bit flushed.

I dimly remember the meal, several courses I believe, all exquisite, but my attention was on our conversation much more clearly. Edith wanted to know about England, and I told her about Cumbria and the vicinity of Allerdale Hall, about the vast expanse of sky and land, the distant view of the sea, and how beautiful it was in springtime. She asked specifically about the house, and I was surprised that she knew the general history of the place; Edith confessed she had researched it shortly after meeting me.  
That alarmed me slightly even as I felt flattered too. Clearly my bride was intelligent, but it was becoming clear to me that she was also resourceful and inquisitive—traits that could be dangerous for her once we reached the Hall. My thoughts were interrupted by her next words.

“In the peerage book . . . the drawing of your mother seemed . . . a bit stern-looking.”

“Oh, yes,” I replied, slightly off-guard. “Mother was cold and cruel, without the _least_ bit of maternal feeling for either Lucille or me . . .” I trailed off, seeing the shock in Edith’s face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“No, it’s all right. I didn’t know,” Edith offered gently. “I suppose everyone’s childhood is . . . different and not all parents are good to their children.”

“Unfortunately true,” I agreed, feeling slightly melancholy. I took a sip of wine. “Your father, rest his soul, clearly loved you very much and let you know it. My parents did neither for us. I was a disappointment to my father, who would have preferred a more robust son, and an irritation to my mother, who knew I would inherit the hall over members of her family. Between them they belittled us, kept us confined, beat us, and left it to the servants to raise us. Lucille and I had only each other for love and support for many lonely years, Edith.”

The moment these words left my mouth I regretted them. To lay out the truth so baldly amid such a lovely and intimate setting was tantamount to throwing the glass of wine all over the table, and I drew in a sharp breath at my own folly. Pain flared through me, but also an odd, defiant peace too. I’d told the truth—or part of it anyway—and that was a start.

Edith blinked, and I saw by the brightness that she was holding back tears, so I touched her cheek to reassure her.

“Thomas . . . that’s terrible! How anyone could do that to a child! To _you!”_

I swallowed hard to rid myself of the lump in my throat. Was it pride or fear? Once again Edith had caught me off-guard, had slipped under my guise with her forthright concern. I tried to smile but it was a hesitant one. At that moment the waiter returned, and both Edith and I gave him false smiles as he set down our demitasses of coffee. When he left, Edith’s hand slid across the table to touch mine and I curled my fingers around hers, grateful for the warmth. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“It’s in the past,” I replied, working to keep my voice level, “where it should stay.” 

“We’re going back to your home,” Edith pointed out. “Your past will be there, Thomas. _Everywhere._ ” 

Another truth. I sighed. 

Because I was lost in thought, I hadn’t realized how cold the open sea had gotten, and we hurried back to the cabin, shielding ourselves from the chill. Once inside, Edith burrowed against me, shivering. “Warmth, please,” she demanded. 

I held her to me, savoring the way she fit against my frame. The comfort of holding her, of being held in return felt wonderful and strange at the same time. When Lucille held me, it was out of need—either hers, or mine. Other than those times, she couldn’t stand to be touched, and I was kept at arm’s length until she chose to pull me in. Given all my sister had been through I understood this, but it made it nearly impossible to share simple affection. 

Edith looked up at me, a slightly saucy look on her face. “I know we are in a period of mourning,” she began. I pressed a finger to her lips. 

“Yes,” I told her. “I understand _completely_ my darling. And I know too, that our first . . . er, _time_ , shouldn’t be out on the middle of the ocean among strangers. I am perfectly willing to wait until we are both free to express our love to the fullest.” 

Yes, I was a coward. 

I saw the disappointment in her eyes even though my words were perfectly reasonable. Her pout was in truth, adorable, and I wanted nothing more than to treat my words a tease, to sweep her up and take her to the bed. My body yearned to do so, the traitorous beast, so I stepped away from Edith with a smile of regret. “Would you like me to draw you a bath?” 

She agreed to that, sighing, and I went to the little WC, turning the taps for the tub, lingering a while as I tried not to picture Edith stepping in the water, golden-skinned and lithe. 

Difficult. I shot myself a stern look in the mirror over the sink, wetted my face and stepped out again, determined to find other matters to occupy my mind. Edith was behind the dressing screen, so I took the opportunity to pick up one of the novels we’d packed, and dropped myself into the easy chair in the corner, opening it to the first page. 

Edith stepped out, and when I peeked over the top of the novel I tried not to notice the delicate lace wrap that revealed her small shoulders, or her bare feet, which I suddenly yearned to kiss. She strolled past me, a little smirk on the corner of her mouth, and it dawned on me that my own wife was attempting to seduce me. 

“You _are_ a beauty, Edith Sharpe,” I murmured, and a little pleasured hum was her response as she closed the door behind her. 

When I took my own bath an hour later, I climbed in, gritting my teeth against the icy water, allowing it to numb me the way it had all through my childhood. I stayed in as long as I could, and climbed out after scrubbing myself clean. Edith had hung my nightshirt on the back of the door and I pulled it on, shivering. 

She was already in bed, and I climbed in beside her, grateful for the warmth as she shifted to make room for me. I breathed in the scent of her skin. Intoxicating. 

“You are _freezing,_ ” Edith murmured. “Roll over.” 

Uncertainly I did; she scooted closer, pressing her little form against my spine. Warmth seeped through her nightdress and my shirt. Edith slipped an arm around my waist and cuddled closer, holding me in a way I had not been held in years. Having her there that way kept me from temptation, and I relaxed into the comfort of her embrace. 

She pressed her cheek against my shoulder. “Better?” 

“Yes,” I admitted. “Much.” 

The slow roll of the ship rocked us both to sleep, although it took some time for me to do so. 


	8. Chapter 8

I awoke the next morning to find myself tangled with Edith in ways that were making matters . . . difficult. She was burrowed against my side, leg over mine, arm over my waist. This proximity stirred my libido and I lay still, enjoying the scent of her even as I fought down the urge to kiss her awake. When one little hand began to slide down I debated whether to stop it or not.

I did not. 

Edith’s fingers lightly glided along the front of my nightshirt, her touch a sensual tickle that tested my restraint. Risking a peek, I noted that her eyes were closed but that lovely quirk of a smile graced her mouth. 

Awake. The minx was feigning sleep as well.

That put matters into a different light, and I decided that a counter attack would derail her best, so I rolled towards her, forcing Edith to her back with an amused snort, catching her impish gaze. “Are you ticklish?”

The question made her freeze and I had my answer. Carefully I slipped a hand up along her ribs as she began to squirm.   
“Thommmmmasssss . . . you wouldn’t!”

“Not true,” I countered and proceeded to lightly work my fingers against her sides. She wriggled indignantly, spluttering a laugh, turning to do the same to me, and the bout was on. Back and across the mattress we tussled, twisting covers and shoving pillows in our conflict. Edith proved to be adept at squirming out of my grip, and only through persistence did I manage to finally pin her against the coverlet to have her grin up into my face. 

“Truce?” she huffed breathlessly.

I was breathless myself, although not precisely from exertion; I lay half over her, and the curve of her hip through her thin nightgown pressed along the turgid length of my aroused member.

“Truce,” I agreed, knowing I should move and yet not doing it. We gazed at each other and I loved her so very much in that moment. Her hair was a wild tangle around her pink face, and her arms slid around my shoulders to pull me into a kiss.

Warm and glorious, full of sensuality. A kiss so delicious I felt drunk when I caught my breath. I shook my head to clear it, feeling dangerously on the brink, close to what I could not say, but oh how I wanted to leap. I kissed Edith again, and when she opened her lips to me once more, heat flared through my entire frame.

_Yes,_ I told myself. _**She.** Edith. She is who I want beside me for all my tomorrows._

Having made that simple choice, I reluctantly pulled away propping myself up on my hands and caught her flushed gaze, holding it until she focused on me once more. “Thomas?” she murmured, a little crinkle appearing between her brows.

“Edith, I love you. And _because_ I love you, I need you to know the truth,” I told her, my voice a little hoarse. “What I need to say cannot be said here.”

Her confusion made her sit up, pushing herself on her elbows to stare at me. “You mean about being married before?”

I froze.

Icicles of panic surged through my veins and all I could do was stare at her while she tossed the hair out of her eyes. “Or was it about your mother being murdered?”

“H-h-how . . .” the word escaped me, followed by a wheeze as I tried make my mind function, my limbs move. 

“My father told me,” she replied, managing that crooked little smile of hers. “After you and your sister left. After you . . . critiqued my novel. I confronted him in his study and made him show me what the detective found.”

My arms gave way and I collapsed onto the mattress, stunned at this strange twist of events, unable to comprehend anything. Edith leaned over me, laying a hand on my cheek to turn my face towards hers. “Thomas? I’m sorry, dearest if it shocks you that I knew, but it is how I am. I look for reasons behind the things that happen to me.”

“But . . . you _married_ me,” I blurted out, still unable to form coherent thought, my heart thundering in my chest. My tongue felt heavy, my thoughts impossibly slow, thick in the glue of my guilt. “You . . .”

“I _love_ you,” Edith pointed out with a little exasperation in her voice. “Truthfully, you are _not_ the first man that my father had investigated on my behalf. Yes there was a marriage license with your name on it. I thought that in time, you would tell me about your past freely and since you always wore black, I assumed you were in mourning for your wife.”

“Black wears well,” I countered, rather pointlessly. “It was my father’s suit, cut to fit me.”

“Ah,” Edith replied. We stared at each other for a moment longer, both of us unsure what to say next. I do not know what she was thinking but I myself was still fighting the urge to run. The sudden image of me flinging myself out of the cabin door in my nightshirt to sprint up the deck stairs to the railing held enough nonsense to force dry chuckles from my chest.

“Why are you laughing?” Edith asked me in a worried, careful voice.

“Because if I were to dash outside at this moment and attempt to throw myself over the railing, the sight would be enough to cause utter conniption fits for the other passengers,” I admitted. “Lunacy on the high seas.”

She gave a little giggle of her own, and for some reason the sound of her squeak made me laugh again. We both laughed, caught up in a case of light hysterics I think, panic and mirth bubbling out of us both.

Gradually though, the mood shifted and I sat up, scrubbing my face with my hands. I ran fingers through my hair and sighed. “Edith, I have a great deal to say, and none of it will be easy for you to bear. You will hate me, detest me, and . . . when we arrive in England you will be able to annul our marriage with no impediment from me at all.”

She shifted to her side of the bed and began to rise, looking over her shoulder at me. “Then before you speak, we need to dress and have breakfast. What _ever_ you are going to say to me will go better with food, Thomas.”

I gaped at her; she motioned for me to get up and dumbly I did.

*** *** ***  
We took breakfast in the veranda room, a topside eatery that opened to a lovely view of the prow. At our end of the room not many patrons were about, and I wouldn’t have noticed them anyway, not with my stomach knotted firmly around my spine. As it was I could barely handle a cup of tea, although once it made it to my lips I calmed myself a bit.

Where to begin? 

_How_ to begin?

Once again Edith cut through my dilemma by laying an envelope on the table between us. A familiar envelope; I cringed at the sight of it but she unwound the string on the flap and opened it. Out slid the broadsheet and copy of the marriage registration. She smoothed them out on the table, looked up at me, and gave me that look I was learning to recognize so well.

Patient. Determined. Strong.

“Where would you like to start?” Edith urged me.

I reached for the broadsheet, tracing my fingertip over the engraving of my mother and as I did so, the murk of my dread thinned a little. That face, how well I remember it even now. Stern and frowning, sallowed with a lifetime of bitterness in every line.

“Mother,” I sighed. “So much of who we are goes back to her. My mother never forgave Lucille or me for being born. For having to bear my father’s right to create heirs for himself with her body. They hated each other and married simply because it was a financially expedient arrangement. When Lucille was born both my parents were deeply disappointed she was a girl—my father because she wasn’t a son, and my mother because it meant she would have to submit once again to my father in his attempts at an heir.”

When I glanced up at Edith, her pretty mouth was set in a firm line, but her gaze held compassion. “Your poor sister,” she murmured.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Lucille suffered from the day she was born. We had a wet nurse who did her best, but it wasn’t really enough. Two years later I was born, and that made matters a little easier for a while. Lucille and I were companions after that, growing up together in the nursery. She taught me my letters and played games with me, she seemed more a mother to me than my own mother ever was.”

What to say next? I knew I must tread carefully now, to say what I knew I must. And yet the heartache might well destroy this fragile love between us. I took one of Edith’s hands and wrapped it around my wrist, making sure her nails were against the tender skin under my palm. She let me, looking puzzled, but I plunged on, feeling desperate now to have the secret out.

“Edith . . . Lucille was . . . for many years . . . my . . . lover,” I rasped, spitting the words out.


	9. Chapter 9

The bite of Edith’s nails into my flesh jolted me but I’d expected it. Deserved it. Her grip was surprisingly strong for such a little hand and so pale. I looked up into her face, which was stock-still and drained of all color. All I could see were those wide brown eyes, unblinking and locked on me.

Shame flushed me; heat seared my face and I felt roasted under Edith’s gaze. Helpless to break away, I looked at her, feeling my mouth twist up as pain such as I’d never known wracked me through. “ _Edith_. . . .” I pleaded.

We stayed that way for slow minutes that crawled by. I heard the ocean waves churning out beyond the veranda, heard the clink of china at other tables and breathed in the brine that hung heavy on the overcast morning air around us.

Caught in the glass of the moment.

“Why?” came the tiniest, softest sob from her beautiful lips. With that, a tear followed, rolling down her cheek. Edith ignored it, and I wanted so much to wipe it away. No, _kiss_ it away and comfort her for this cruel blow. Her question needed to be answered, though, and I drew in a breath.

“It was . . . all we could give each other,” I sighed, feeling shame leaking with my words. “At first, for comfort. We turned to each other without hesitation in that cruel world of our home. Later . . . out of a strange sense of mutual desire, I suppose.”

I swallowed my bitterness, my mouth filled with ashes. Edith still gripped my wrist, and I had no doubt I’d be wearing little crescent indentations there for a while. Part of mine longed for her to dig deeper.

To draw blood.

After an age had past, I heard her speak again, her voice just as soft and wounded. “And . . . _now_?”

“No more,” I murmured with a growing sense of strength in my words. “After she bore a child and it died at her hands I realized that my sister _cannot_ love. Whatever we had between us, though it may have begun as a dark and twisted love, it is no _more_ , Edith. I cannot live the way we were. It has been a while in coming, and now . . . .”

Edith’s face was streaked with glittering trails and yet she never stopped looking at me with those huge, vulnerable eyes of hers. So still—I thought the shock was too much and she might faint.

“Thomas,” she murmured very quietly. “I need you to go. Go away. Stay away until . . . I come and find you. Do this _now_ , please.”

I rose. Her hand dropped away from my wrist, and as I had foreseen, the little dents left by her nails stood out against the thin skin of my inner wrist. One mark bled. Slowly I turned away from her, steeling myself against the wave of misery rising within me. Deep down too, was a sense of despair.

Had I lost everything?

I didn’t know.

I spent the rest of the day walking the ship, moving from deck to deck, prowling restlessly from one location to another. The ship’s library offered me no distraction, nor did the billiards room or the cards room or the dining room. I cursed myself, argued with myself and moved between a tiny sense of pride in unburdening my darkest secrets to the one person in the world I trusted all the while damning myself for the same action.

I wept. How could I have done this so baldly, so badly? I’d taken Edith’s trust and crushed it under the weight of an evil she didn’t deserve to deal with. I’d poisoned her soul out of my own need, and yet in doing so . . . in doing so, I knew I’d saved her from Lucille. If there was any merit in what I’d done it was that. Edith and I would file for an annulment, and my beautiful butterfly would be free and safe.

A small comfort, but the first choice I’d made that mattered.

Every now and then I sucked at my wrist, tasting the little fading marks there.

It began to rain, and I stayed out at the rail, letting the chill soak through me. It suited my mood. I watched what light there was left fade when the sun set behind thick clouds. The sea grew rougher after dark but I hardly noticed, so caught up in my own bleak thoughts.

I could end it, I knew. Right here, I could easily climb over the rail and plunge myself into the inky waters down below. Allow the ship’s wake to suck me under and free Edith in a different way. There might be an inquest, but she’d be free to go. 

Lucille . . . would probably follow me, I thought. Therein lay the difference between us. I could live without my sister, but I didn’t think she would choose to without me. The guilt of that washed over me in a fresh wave. I cursed it.

I loved my sister. There were so many moments, so many gestures and kindnesses she’d showered on me in our lives. Times and memories I would never be able to make anyone else understand. Yes, we had been lovers, but we had also been friends and confidants and companions as well. I knew my sister’s tastes and favorites as she knew mine.

Now, so much of that was lost these days; pushed aside for the needs and greeds of our day to day existence. And Lucille had changed in the time we’d been apart. Before she had been defiant and strong; forthright in her contempt for our parents. After her time away from me at Blackthorne though, she’d become a darker, crueler creature.

Was it possible to love and hate at the same time? That I could wish for the sister I _used_ to have and not the sister who wore a mask of cold sanity over her madness?

Once Edith chose to end our pretense of a marriage, I decided, I would return to Allerdale Hall and Lucille. I would wait until she slept, and in the night I would kill us both. That would be for the best. The house would pass to the Crown, be razed to the ground and wild grass would grow over everything in time. 

A simple plan that would work. No-one _else_ would ever need to die, I thought with bleak surety. Edith would live to love again, someone worthy of her courage, worthy of her honest soul.

I made my way to one of the empty deck chairs and sat in it, letting the rain lash me in the dark. The chill sank into me, making me drowsy and I drifted, curled on my side, dripping and cold.

 

Hours later I woke to hard shaking. Pale and small, Edith crouched beside me, wrapped in a cloak, her face barely visible. I looked up at her blearily, aware of how chilled I was.

“Inside,” Edith ordered me in a choked voice. “Come inside.”

My legs would not work; I stumbled and had to lean on Edith, who tried to support me. We managed to get to the main stairwell where I shifted my weight to the railing. How I got to the bottom without falling was a miracle in and of itself. We lurched together into the cabin and I found myself shivering violently now, every limb cramping.

She stripped me, dropping my wet clothing to the floor and steered me into the WC. There, a steaming bath beckoned me and I clumsily climbed into it, too miserable to be embarrassed at being naked before Edith. I sank into the heat as more shudders wracked my frame. 

Warmth seeped through my rounded shoulders, my crossed arms. I had barely begun to relax when I felt a touch on my spine. Edith knelt at the side of the tub, working soap in her hands, her nightgown sleeves rolled up. I tried to catch her eye but she wouldn’t meet mine; instead she began to soap up my shoulder and ribs.

My teeth were chattering too hard for me to speak so I sat there and let her wash me like a stray dog retrieved from the road. Methodical she was, pouring hot water from the ladle over my spine and head, scrubbing my arms and back. The soothing combination of the heat and touch gradually worked in thawing me out, and still I held my tongue, aware that I need not speak—whatever Edith had to say, she would in her own good time.

Finally though, it was time to climb out. She handed me a towel and turned her back, motioning for me to dry myself. I did, pulling on my nightshirt over my still damp frame. When I cleared my throat, she turned back to face me in the tiny room.

“Bed,” she ordered.

Edith gave away nothing in her voice but I saw a tremble in her hands as she hung up the towel. I hesitated, but she pointed through the doorway and I had no choice but to obey her directive.

I didn’t know what to think. This couldn’t be forgiveness, and yet it wasn’t condemnation either. Perhaps someone had reported me to her, and Edith preferred not to create a scene. Whatever the case, I made my way to the bed and climbed in, keeping myself to as small a space as I could. 

Edith turned down the gas jet and climbed in on the other side, her slight weight barely making the mattress dip. I stayed still, waiting for . . . whatever was to come. Sharp words? Orders not to touch her? 

I waited, listening.

“Go away did _not_ mean sleep in the rain until you catch your death of cold,” came her soft chide. “I expected to find you asleep in the library, or perhaps on one of the gaming chaise lounges. I looked for you everywhere I could think of, and started to fear you’d . . . done something desperate. And I couldn’t _bear_ that, Thomas. I have lost too much too recently to lose you as well.”

A rush of remorse flooded through me, along with a wondering hint of surprise. She cared. Even through all I’d told her, Edith . . . cared.

“T-thank you,” I managed through my chattering teeth.

“There is more to be said in the morning,” she murmured, and wonder of wonders I felt her shift across the sheets, rolling closer to me until we lay side by side, looking up at the cabin ceiling together, “but right now you are going to keep me safe.”

Edith gave a little sigh and relaxed against me under the covers. In truth the dark and snug warmth of the cabin was making me drowsy too, and I closed my eyes as well. Before I drifted off, I whispered, “Safe from whom?”

“My . . . father’s . . . ghost,” came her slow, sleepy slur of a reply.


	10. Chapter 10

For the second morning I awoke to find myself held by Edith, and this time I let myself savor it. She was still asleep, her breath warm against my shoulder where she had rested her head. For a while I lay there, drifting in that odd state of consciousness between full wakefulness and doze, thinking how very pleasant it was to be warm, dry, and at least tolerated by someone I loved.

I was simply her dog, I thought. Not as spritely as Enola’s puppy, who now resided with Billy, safe from Lucille’s bad temper. I was merely a hound, I supposed--something with a mournful face and long legs. Restless and devoted, grateful for any crumb of affection. The very idea amused me but I turned away from that thought to Edith’s last words before we slept.

Her father’s ghost . . . now that was slightly alarming. Perhaps she’d had a nightmare, I reasoned, or even worse, she had some inkling about his death. I knew Edith believed in ghosts; she’d told me about being visited more than once by the specter of her mother. I wasn’t sure what to think, especially since her confession came in that soft, practical way of hers.

Ghosts. I knew Allerdale had a few. I’d seen at least one myself, a mournful figure down in the coal cellar, his head at a ghastly angle. Lucille told me that before we were born one of the servants had tripped and broken his neck in the coal cellar. He hadn’t been missed for a few days, and when they finally found his remains they’d been chewed on by rats. To this day I avoided the coal cellar, and whenever I was forced to go down there I kept the lantern close to me.

Still, Edith wasn’t flighty or foolish; she held an endearingly practical core that in my experience few women her age had. I could speak to her about serious matters as well as slight ones. Nevertheless, her belief in spirits seemed to be deep-rooted. 

As I considered this, I felt her stir against me, and the little movement was enough to provoke a natural masculine response throughout my body. I strove to stay still, but matters were not helped when Edith pressed up against my thigh in a manner that put me at a distinct disadvantage.

“You are warm, and comfortable to sleep with,” came her little whisper. 

“Thank you,” I replied in an equally soft voice, “and thank you for saving me last night.”

She stiffened then, and pulled away from me. “Yes, well angry as I am, I don’t want you to die, especially through a lack of self-preservation.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to protest that I probably would have survived through the night, but something in her tone told me it would be better to stay silent, so I said nothing. 

Edith sat up and leaned over me, that glorious hair of hers slithering down her shoulders in a cascade of bright curls. She looked down at me with the grave expression of a solemn child. “You are a different man than I thought you were,” came her murmur. “You’re not used to telling the truth.”

“Yes,” I admitted. 

“But,” Edith shifted, gripping my wrists to shift them over my head, pinning them to the pillow. The action startled me, especially when she clambered over my body to straddle my waist. “You’re going to _start_ telling the truth from now on, _aren’t_ you, Thomas Sharpe?”

“Yes,” I responded without hesitation, my pulse accelerating. To be pinned by the butterfly—every inch of my skin felt the heat, the slight weight of her on me. I fought the urge to rock my hips, and some of my struggle must have shown in my face because Edith kept her gaze on me.

After a long moment, she nodded. “Good. I realized yesterday that the only lies you’ve ever told me were by omission. Today I am going to ask you questions and you will answer me honestly.”

“Yes,” I repeated, my mouth dry. She was small; I could have bucked her off of me easily. I could have rolled over with Edith and pinned her myself to the mattress but instead I stayed exactly where I was; a dog with his belly up.

I throbbed.

She gave a small smile. “Very well. Where is your wife?”

“Which one?”

That _should_ have surprised Edith, but she merely pursed her lips and stared at me. “Thomas—”

“There were three: Margaret, Pamela, and Enola. All older, all wealthy. It was Lucille’s idea to poison them. Margaret died that way, Pamela from a fall, and Enola . . . Enola poisoned herself. She had tried to save . . . the baby,” I managed, blinking. 

Edith swallowed; I watched her throat as she did it. Her fingers tightened around my wrists but I made no struggle. “They were murdered.”

I couldn’t deny it. “Yes.”

“Why? For the money?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “Despite the house and land Lucille and I are poor as church mice. If I can make the mines work we can rebuild the fortune we once had, but that requires working capital, a great deal of it.”

Edith bent closer, rolling her hips in a way that made me hiss. I tensed against her grip, but didn’t break it, caught up in this beautifully strange moment with her. I felt my face heat up, my member stiffen further under her thin gown and spread thighs. She took my lower lip in her mouth, small teeth nipping it for a moment, our breath mingling.

Then a bite, hard and sweet; I moaned. Edith pushed herself up again, weight on my wrists. “So you were the lure, then. A handsome young baronet with good manners and polished charm, dangled in front of foolish matrons to be reeled in by your sister. You were after the McMichaels, weren’t you?”

“Yessss.” I tasted the blood trickling down my lip, flicked it with my tongue, “but . . ."

She arched an eyebrow. I stared up into Edith’s brown velvet gaze, hopelessly in love, helplessly in heat for this tiny goddess, “but I saw you and _everything_ changed in that moment, Edith! You . . . you were so different and strong and clever and I wanted you for _myself._ ”

We stared at each other. It was painful. Wonderful. I could have spent hours this way.

Edith cocked her head. “Now I understand why your sister hates me.”

“No, she . . . .” I trailed off, falling silent.

Edith’s smile widened. “Good. No more lies, Thomas. Your sister hates me because she didn’t pick me. You did. And you picked me because--”

“I _love_ you,” I whispered.

For a moment Edith almost seemed to accept that, but after a few seconds she shook her head. “No. That’s only partially the truth, Thomas. Yes, you love me and I love you, but you _chose_ me before you loved me. You chose me because . . . .”

“This.” 

I wasn’t sure I could explain. I knew what I _meant_ of course, and it encompassed far more than our current situation but included it as well. From the gleam in Edith’s eyes she understood me.

“This,” she echoed, and did another slow grind against me, making us both groan a little. Her fingers tightened on my wrists, palms pressing on the bruises of the day before.

I longed for new ones.

“Strength,” came my hoarse explanation. “Of will. You have so much, my love. You’re sitting there on a throne made out of _me_ , and I don’t dare _move_ without your say so!”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking smug, which suited her very well. Bending down again, Edith touched her nose to mine briefly, her hair a curtain all around my face. “I can _feel_ you, and I _want_ you but until we decide what we are going to do when we leave the _Morgana_ we are _not_ going to consummate this marriage of ours.”

I nodded slowly; it was what I’d expected and kinder than I deserved of course. Edith kept shifting though, and trying to suppress my response was becoming nearly impossible. I gritted my teeth at one particularly devious twist of her hips. My own were starting to rock, and I expected some sort of scathing remark or rebuke, but Edith gave a little chuckle and tightened her grip on my wrists.

“Shhhhh,” she murmured, and wriggled against me for long moments, matching the rhythm my body had begun.

It was torture and bliss in one, with the weight of her against my straining erection, the damp cloth a faint barrier between us. Edith writhed against me, moaning, the friction and heat building until I began to sense a new urgency to her rocking. The sight of her, the feel of her shuddering against me, her nipples hard through the thin lace of her gown as she pleasured herself were all too much, and eventually, inevitably I thrust hard, feeling myself spill in furious spurts against the already damp front of my nightshirt.

I drew in a deep breath, trying to stop my panting breath, feeling as if every nerve had been sensually electrified. Edith slumped a bit, and dropped her lips to mine. I felt her tongue flick again over my bloody bottom lip, and then dip into my mouth to play with mine.

A sweeter kiss I had never had, and when her nails bit into my wrists I shuddered again.

Edith let them go, dropping brief kisses on them before regally sliding off of me and the bed. I watched her unbutton the gown and let it drop off of her body until she stood there clothed only in her glorious hair; a Raphaelite vision of loveliness. 

“I hope they’re still serving breakfast,” she murmured, turning away and stepping behind the screen in the corner of the cabin. “Dress quickly, please, Thomas and we’ll go together.”


	11. Chapter 11

We spent a quiet day together. The weather improved enough to allow some thin sunshine through, and braver souls were camping here and there in the deckchairs, well-bundled up and attended to by the porters. Edith and I found a little alcove on the port side where we were protected from the wind and took a pair of the lounges there.

I had a few letters to answer and a novel I’d bought weeks before while Edith had a stack of thank you notes she industriously plowed through on the little polished lap desk she’d brought along, and next to her was a bundle that I knew was her manuscript.

We didn’t speak for a while, content in being together and occupied with our individual tasks. I found it a balm to have Edith next to me; her calm presence made me more relaxed than I’d been in a long time. Occasionally we would look up, or look at each other and smile.

I didn’t think I was forgiven per se but now was a period of grace in which I could strengthen my resolve to change, and somehow Edith understood that. When I rose to take a walk she nodded and waved me off, concentrating once again on the note on her desk. I moved off, measuring my pace and heading along the deck, feeling almost cheerful. 

Still the issue of the future, both immediate and distant occupied my thoughts and I considered the matter of Lucille and Allerdale Hall with new concerns wondering what course of action to take. Edith and I had at least four days left on the ship and another two before we would reach Cumbria. That was assuming we even chose to go—as I saw it, we could choose not to finish our trip north.

A dilemma though—much as I hated to admit it, my obligation to Lucille still existed, just as it did to the Hall and lands. I was responsible for my sister—legally as her guardian and by familial duty as her brother. I couldn’t abandon her. And I loved her still; the ties of our childhood yet bound us despite my new and tender commitment to Edith.

So simple flight was not a viable choice, tempting as it seemed. For a bittersweet moment in indulged myself in thoughts of traveling with Edith, doing the Grand Tour of the continent together: pastries in Vienna, shopping for art in Paris; visiting catacombs in Rome. 

And nights together of course, indulging ourselves intimately. 

Regretfully I pushed those decadent fantasies aside and let the cold air chill my face as I looked out again over the railing. 

To return to Allerdale Hall . . . that would take courage, particularly in light of current events. Lucille would be expecting matters to follow the course we’d already undertaken thrice, would be expecting me to do as I had done before—step back and let her proceed.

I hung my head. I’d been a fool to turn a blind eye to all that. To have led innocents to their fates and pretended it was all for the best . . . again I realized that when I was away from my sister’s influence, I could see the error of my ways, feel the guilt of my passive permission.  
Lucille might have committed the murders, but I’d condoned them, and I knew that in the eyes of the law I would be considered as guilty as she was. That brought me no joy either. Though I deserved to be convicted and sentenced as an accessory to murder, I at least regretted my actions; Lucille never would.

And that, I thought, might be a solution. If Lucille was revealed to be insane, then the circumstances might mitigate matters as far as my involvement . . .

Up until the matter of our incest came to light.

I sighed, grimly aware of how profoundly naive I’d been. The isolation of Allerdale Hall, of Cumbria in general had limited my world view and now I was paying for that folly indeed. I would be arrested, and at worst, hanged alongside my sister, leaving Edith a widow. At best I might receive a prison sentence for unknown number of years, which would then be grounds for Edith to leave me. Although I had no doubt that justice would be served in either circumstance, they both seemed excessively bleak.

A small gloved hand touched mine on the rail; I cast a sidelong glance at my wife, meeting her inquiring gaze.

“Melancholy thoughts?” She asked.

“Absolutely mournful ones,” I confessed. “The future looks a great deal less rosy than I had realized.”

“Hmmm,” Edith replied, slipping an arm around my waist. “Come, let’s go discuss it.”

We retired to our cabin and I unburdened myself to her, telling her everything I had considered during my walk, including the legalities. Edith listened carefully as she took off her hat and wrap, moving to put them away before sit next to me on the chaise lounge in the little parlor room. When I ran out of words and was feeling a hint of panic, she took my hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Are you done?”

“I will be done _for_ ,” I snapped. “Honestly Edith, I have been the world’s biggest fool these last few years and now I’ll be paying for it with my life.”

She waited until my petulant tirade was over and then pursed her mouth. “Yes, running away is tempting, but not really practical. If you run, you’ll be chased, my father used to say.”

I gave a grunt of agreement. 

Edith sighed. “If we go to Allerdale Hall, what will Lucille do?”

“Greet us, show you the house I suppose, and start poisoning your tea,” I replied gloomily. “She’ll want to know particulars of our trip, and be considerate because she wants to lull you into complacency. In private she will tell me I am to come to her in the night, demand to know that I’ve been faithful, that you are financially secured to us, and then insist on . . . intimacy.”

Edith made a face.

I made one back.

“Would she ever leave Allerdale on her own?”

“No,” I sighed. “It’s all she’s ever really wanted—to be mistress there, with me as her . . . consort. The two of us forever in this . . . this folie à deux.”

Edith considered this. “So you, and Allerdale Hall. Not one without the other?”

“So it would seem,” I murmured, but I wasn’t sure. Much as my sister loved our ancestral home, I _hoped_ her attachment to me was the stronger bond of the two.

Edith looked thoughtful. “So what do _you_ want, Thomas?”

“You,” I shot back without hesitation. “If it were possible to cohabitate with both you and Lucille I would be content in life, but I doubt that’s possible.”

Edith gave me a patient look. “Your sister has eliminated three of your previous wives; were I a betting woman I would _not_ put money on the belief that she will welcome me with open arms.”

“No,” I agreed glumly. “Lucille is . . . ruthless. I wish she was other than she is but I fear it is too late for her to change. There was a time when she understood kindness, but not now. Not for years. Now she _chooses_ to be the creature she is and holds the rest of the world in contempt.”

Edith rose up and paced before me, her steps slow. “Has she been . . . examined by a doctor?”

“You mean for sanity?” I frowned. “Well she _was_ given into my care with the understanding that I would be her guardian, and the arrangement was approved by the asylum years ago.”

Edith stopped. “Asylum?”

“Yes,” I admitted quietly. “Blackthorne Asylum, in Switzerland. Lucille was committed there for over ten years.”

She stalked over to me, wrapped her hands lightly around my throat and mock-throttled me. “Arrrgh! And you never thought of telling me this before _now_?”

I caught Edith’s wrists and looked up at her. “It was because of Mother.”

All the playfulness went out of Edith’s demeanor; she winced. “Lucille . . . murdered your mother.”

“Yes. Mother had discovered our . . . relationship.”

Edith’s hands moved to the sides of my head, tipping my face up, and her gaze held mine for a long time. She moved closer, brushing her lips to mine, speaking against my mouth in a low, deliberate tone. “Thomas, no more secrets. I need you,” Edith breathed, “to tell me everything. _Please._ ”

It was the ‘please’ that unlocked the final chain on my heart, of course.

Whereas in the past Lucille could wind me around her finger with wiles and flattery and declarations of love, Edith had only to ask me in that sweet, direct way of hers and I would have fetched her the moon and stars.

Edith pulled me to my feet and steered us both to the bed; when we were stretched out on it, holding each other, I spoke, and told her everything. At some point I felt tears begin to well and drip from my eyes but I did not stop until the last of my sordid past was out and revealed to her. 

We lay together in silence for a while. I felt emptied and light; the burden of my conscience had become bearable now, and although the future was yet uncertain, my love for Edith gave me peace.

Finally she spoke. “We must find a way . . .”

“. . . to have her re-committed,” I finished.


	12. Chapter 12

That night Edith and I ventured to the game salon after dinner and were invited into a game of whist with a pair of gentlemen who introduced themselves as Doctor Ian Addams, of Boston, and his friend Miles Lee of Virginia. Both were exceedingly gracious and good players, determined to keep the game at a friendly and convivial level. 

I’d played many times before and knew the rules; Edith apparently had as well and our partnership over the table became a delightful exercise in mind-reading. For the first time in ages I found myself genuinely enjoying myself in a social setting. Edith too, seemed to relax and allowed herself to shine, drawing out our fellow players with light conversation as we played.

Within a few hours she and I had learned that Addams was unmarried, fond of dogs and headed to London for a Fellowship with the Pathological Society of London while his companion Lee was as he put it, ‘a mere scoundrel along for the ride.’ Both of them asked me questions about England and I did my best to answer them, all the while playing hand after hand. When the game finally wound down Edith and I bid our new friends good night with a promise to meet up with them for dinner the next evening. 

I marveled to myself about how simple and enjoyable the time had been, and mentioned to Edith, who agreed as we made our way back to our cabin. “Normality can be a comfort. You played very well, by the by.”

“Thank you,” I replied, absurdly pleased at the compliment. A small thing, but having her praise warmed me. “As did you.”

She smiled at me then, a shy look that made my heartbeat quicken just as we reached the stairs for the cabin deck. I followed her down and into our abode, aware again of how close our quarters were.

The hour was already half past ten, and Edith had already slipped behind the dressing screen. I took out my cufflinks and collar stays, and took my time unhooking my pocket watch and fob, all the while looking in the mirror. Not out of vanity, but because it reflected nearly all of our room, and unbidden, I realized the erotic potential of the glass. Biting my lip I tried to put it out of mind; I had no right to expect anything from Edith at this point. She had been clear that we would not consummate our marriage, and I was determined to stand by her decision. 

Perhaps, I thought a moment later, ‘stand’ was the wrong verb, since it applied a little too precisely to my own situation. Before I could chide myself for being too focused on physical matters, Edith emerged from behind the dressing screen in a delicate pink silk negligee that did nothing to alleviate my discomfort. Whereas Lucille moved with confident sensuality in her seductions, Edith seemed completely unaware of her effect on me, and glided over to work on my shirt studs.

“Since we are sharing confidences on this trip, I have a few confessions of my own to make.” She murmured, her concentration focused on my shirt. Having her so near heightened my senses and I caught the faint hint of rosewater along with the sweet scent of her skin.

“Whatever your secrets, they cannot be as despicable as my own,” I assured her, staying still as she moved to the second stud in short order. 

In reply she merely hummed and I realized she was nervous, which in turn relaxed me a little. I watched Edith manage the first three studs, and opted to do the last myself, pulling my shirt free to work it loose. She set the studs on the dresser and pulled my shirt off, laying it aside.

“You are . . . _not_ the first naked man I have ever seen,” Edith announced, her pretty mouth quirking a little.

“I’m only half-naked,” I pointed out, amused.

“You were naked yesterday.”

“True,” I sighed, not anxious to relive the humiliating memory, and more interested in her revelation. 

“You don’t seem . . . shocked,” Edith observed, finally looking up at me. 

I smiled. “I’m not. I have _never_ thought of you as prim, Edith; you are too much your own woman to let yourself be sheltered.”

That seemed to appeal to her and she reached at hand to my chest, splaying it on the left side, as if to feel for my heartbeat, which quickened at her touch. I slipped my arms around her.

So slender and yet so warm.

“In college I took art; life studies,” Edith told me. “The human figure, both male and female.”

“Ahh,” I murmured understandingly. “Simple enough.”

“And a few years before that . . . my flute teacher . . . seduced me,” Edith murmured, her voice trembling. My arms tightened around her instinctively, and I felt a welling of tenderness shot through with concern. 

“My _love,_ ” I whispered back, feeling her shiver in my arms. I didn’t want to crush her, so I held her close, ready to let Edith go at the slightest struggle. She didn’t though; she stayed in my arms although she averted her face.

“He was . . . I _trusted_ him, and by the time I realized I shouldn’t have followed him to the garden shed, shouldn’t have let him touch me under my skirt . . . make me . . . .”

“Shhhhh,” I murmured. “You are innocent, Edith! Whatever happened, the blame is entirely _his_!”

“Father . . . he . . . he had him whipped, and taken to jail,” Edith continued, her face very pale and controlled. “It took nearly a year for me to feel safe and happy again, for me to realize that my natural curiosity had been taken advantage of by an unscrupulous person. If you ever wondered why my father was so protective, _that_ was a large part of the reason.”

“Yes,” I murmured, feeling a rush of belated sympathy for Carter Cushing. I could well understand his reaction to me now, certainly. I also felt a surge of hate for the vile instructor who had abused Edith, and a renewed desire to defend her against anyone with evil intentions against her.

Including Lucille, I realized grimly.

Edith gave a little chuckle. “Not so tightly, Thomas; I need to breathe.” I loosened my hug, and she tipped her face up to me. “So, while I am still a virgin, I’m not altogether innocent. When you told me perfection has no place in love—” 

“—I was an _idiot_ , doing my best to push you away because my own sorry heart was breaking,” I broke in. “Edith, truly, I’m sorry for the pain you suffered as a girl and the pain I caused by my own idiocy. You are . . .” I hesitated to call her ‘perfect’ in lieu of how she felt about the word, “the woman I love, the wife I adore, and a far better person than I shall _ever_ be.”

She held my gaze, and the wondrous beauty of her smile just then, that delicate upturn of her lips and sweet gleam in her eyes left me breathless. I knew then that beyond all else I loved Edith truly, that I would protect her and cherish her and yes, die for her.

“You _love_ me,” Edith murmured, as if this was a surprise to her.

“Yes,” I whispered back.

That seemed to settle matters for her, and Edith took me by the hand, leading me to the bed. I followed, not quite sure what degree of intimacy she would allow, but certainly eager for whatever might occur.

I did worry about my own appetites of course. Lucille and I had been lovers for a long time, and had our own set ways when it came to intimacy, mostly at her direction. Lucille enjoyed pain and to my shame I did too to a lesser degree, although it was not necessary for my pleasure the way it was for hers. My sister preferred to inflict and I to receive; another aspect of our relationship that I suspected was not common.

Time enough for that _later_ , I thought.

Edith made me sit on the edge of our bed and stood between my knees, which brought us to level height. She cupped my face in her hands and kissed me before speaking. “I love you too, and I want you very much, Thomas. Tell me . . . show me how to make this good for us.”

Between her confession and her request I found myself keenly aroused, but instantly I decided that the night would be about Edith’s pleasure over my own. Her trust and belief that I could teach her held a tenderness that warmed my soul. _And_ my body, traitorous frame that it was.

I brought my hands to her hips. “It would be my honor,” I purred at her. “Very much so, but I must ask dear, how long until your courses?”

Edith blushed deeply, the color flushing her face and throat. “Ah, they were finished four days ago.”

I nodded. “Good. Come, lie next to me.”

This was familiar territory for both of us, although we’d done this before in night dress and in the dark. Now the gas jet was on, and we slowly divested ourselves of our clothing, helping each other do so. I enjoyed the feel of Edith’s hands along my skin, and exploring hers was an utter delight. She was satiny; dark gold fluff under her arms and at the sweet cleft of her thighs, with pert and lovely breasts topped with areola like pink roses. 

She seemed to enjoy me as well, running her fingers along my chest, stroking my stomach and finding her way to my erection, touching it with an absurd degree of reverence. It amused me to see her so fascinated by it, and certainly it responded by throbbing against her fingers.

“Oh!” Edith chuckled.

I blushed. “Such a thing has a life of its own as you probably know.”

Taking her hand I showed her how to touch me, allowing her time and ease to explore my body. Edith proved to be a natural at sensuality and when I found myself moaning and breathing raggedly, I caught her wrist with a groan of apology. “Slower, or I will . . .”

She understood and softened her touch, still intrigued. “Does it hurt? It seems so flushed and . . . rigid.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” I assured her, trying not to chuckle. “Quite the opposite. But I think turnabout should be fair play.”

Bashfully she allowed me to kiss her throat and stroke her breasts, which were wonderfully sensitive. When I kissed them, she wriggled and when I licked her nipples Edith shuddered with pleasure. I moved lower, intrigued by the sweet heat of her body.

So different from Lucille’s.

Savagely I drove thoughts of my sister from my mind as I teased Edith’s thighs, kissing them, licking them to make her squirm. She carded my curls in her fingers, pulling my hair but I knew it was simply because Edith was caught up in the sensations and not out of fear or doubt. When I managed to persuade her to part her slim thighs, it was my turn to moan as I feasted my gaze on her sweet thatch and the damp cleft below it that glistened.

Carefully I kissed my way along the inside of one leg, letting my lips linger even though my own body urged me forward. As I nuzzled her, Edith leaned forward to watch me, her pupils wide. “T-Thomas?”

“Oh beloved,” I managed, “How beautiful you are.”

With infinite care I pressed a kiss to her pretty quim; Edith gave a fluttery gasp and her hips rocked up, allowing me better access. I kissed her again, trying desperately to control the fresh lust surging through my erection as I held her hipbones.

Delicious. Edith tasted of tangerines and the sea; I suckled and kissed, licked and nuzzled her until her quickening breath and tensing fingers in my hair let me know her crisis was near. That knowledge itself was intensely exciting, and as she shuddered under me I felt my own peak begin against my will, spilling on the coverlet to my embarrassment.

When Edith relaxed, sprawling against the pillows, I lifted my head and rested it on her thigh, feeling more than ever like her hound as she petted my curls. “Ohhh _that_ was . . .” she lifted a hand in a fluttery gesture and smirked. 

“That was too much even for me,” I admitted, and shifted away from the mess I’d created. “One moment—”

After I had returned from the WC with a wet face cloth and attended to myself and the coverlet, I made Edith climb under the covers and joined her there where we lay together contentedly. She lay half over me, her chin resting on her folded hands on my chest. “I’d only ever read about that act,” she murmured to me.

I arched an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

“Writers must be readers,” she replied, striving to look innocent.

“Well you are lovely and exquisitely flavored,” I told Edith. “And I hope you will permit me the pleasure again.”

That made her blush once more. “Yes, well I hope to reciprocate, if you will tutor me in such.”

I bit back a groan, and that made her laugh; she crawled closer and cuddled me until with both fell asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and Kudos! Soon--Lucille!

We slept in; slept in because we had spent an adventurous night that consisted of waking every few hours to indulge ourselves in amorous play. I let Edith do as she wished with me, which consisted of a great deal both in variety and rounds; I was grateful that my stamina managed to keep up with hers, and although we did not yet officially consummate our marriage it was only a matter of time.

So dear, so delightful, so direct—Edith had the perfect sense of me, knowing exactly what to say to make me her own. And in between those times of touches and kisses and crises, we whispered endearments and secrets that would only be known between us.

That left us famished, so we had a late breakfast delivered to our cabin and resolved to create a plan for dealing with Lucille. Edith questioned me at length about Blackthorne and what else I might remember about my sister’s commitment and release, which was not as much as we both wished.

“The papers are at Allerdale, in the desk on the second floor,” I sighed. “I do recall the doctor’s name was McHugh, and that he’d written up a full diagnosis of Lucille prior to remanding her to my care. I know too, he wished to follow up, but given the distance from the asylum and Cumbria, that was not feasible.”

“Are there any local doctors who treated her or were involved in her initial commitment?” Edith asked, taking notes.

“One—Doctor Chatterston. He was the local physician from Carlisle who initially took custody of us both,” I murmured between bites of toast. “He may not be there anymore though—it _has_ been a number of years.”

“True,” Edith admitted, and set her pen down. “Thomas, I am afraid of you sister. She was _already_ intimidating when we were in Buffalo, but now, going into her . . . lair, I honestly _am_ afraid.”

I knew she was telling the truth, and worse, I was afraid myself. My newly revived sense of morality gave me to understand how dangerous Lucille had become. How I had in my _own_ way, permitted that. Even more than Edith, I would have to walk a fine line now around Lucille if we were to succeed in having her re-committed.

“I am as well,” I confessed. “I am the only person she trusts, and betraying that trust—even if it for the good of all—will be a blow to her. It may even . . . unhinge her further.”

Edith rubbed her eyes under her glasses. “Are we _quite_ sure we can’t simply run away? The appeal of that option is getting stronger the closer we sail to England.”

“No,” I shook my head. “Remember what I told you about Paris? I cannot take the chance that Lucille will kill more innocents who did nothing more than cross her path.”

My wife nodded. “Very well. When we reach port, we’ll post letters to Chatterston and see what we can find about anyone local to Cumbria who may know something of psychiatry.”

“I’ll send a letter to Lucille as well, letting her know we’ve arrived,” I added. “That will lull her a bit. So we shall travel north, and await word.”

“And when we receive it . . . then what? Arrange a meeting?” Edith asked me skeptically. “I hardly think we can convince Lucille to be examined by either Chatterston OR McHugh again.”

“No, but perhaps she might be convinced to host someone at the Hall for a few days,” I countered. “Say a visitor, or . . .”

“No!” Edith shook her head. “No, bad enough we will be in danger but I would never deliberately put others in harm’s way!”

“Only as a fallback plan.” I rose up to bring her the other half of my toast. “As I see it, we would do best to keep her . . . off balance. My sister is _used_ to having Allerdale Hall to herself, is used to having complete autonomy there. If we were to unsettle her, it might expedite matters.”

Edith took the toast and nibbled a corner off of it. “Provoke her. You’re suggesting we deliberately provoke your sister.”

“Gently.”

“ _That,_ ” Edith murmured, “will take a good deal of gall. I will feel like a chipmunk taunting a cat.”

“Yes but it _will_ put her off her stride,” I pointed out. “And I will be doing the same. The more unsettling matters are, the easier it will be to convince her to see a doctor or to . . . reveal her intentions.”

Edith was silent for a long time and I wasn’t nearly as confident as I’d sounded, but it truly was the only plan I could think of for the moment. If we went in with the authorities straight on, not only would Lucille be arrested but I would be as well.

“All right,” she agreed. “Until or if we find another way though, I suppose this shall do. Who else is there? Your staff?”

I shook my head. “No staff, not for years. Lucille and I are the only ones who live there. I do have workmen who help me test and refine the extractor but they leave before evening, and do not associate with Lucille.”

“No witnesses,” Edith sighed. “Well I shall see what I can do. Perhaps I will hire someone to cook, or to clean.”

_That_ would require an entire crew I thought, but didn’t voice it. I had no wish to add to Edith’s anxieties at the moment, and she would be in a better position to judge once she’d seen the house. 

“Lucille generally cooks,” I murmured. “Although . . . not well.”

“Better than _I_ do, I’m sure,” Edith replied, smirking. “I’ve been known to burn water.”

That made me smile, as was her intention. I took her hand and kissed it. “Just promise me that you’ll do what you can to avoid the tea. Please, Edith. Spill it, tell her you don’t feel well—whatever it takes.”

She nodded.

*** *** ***  
We put the issue out of mind as best we could and spent the day amusing ourselves—went to a stringed quartet performance in the salon, enjoyed a formal tea on the deck which we shared with our new friends, and passed a few hours reading in the library. Edith and I spoke of the silly and the sublime; talked about our lives and our ambitions.

“Children?” she asked me quietly. We were browsing the shelves of mythology, and I noted she was looking at a drawing of Castor and Pollux.

I considered the question, looking at her. “I know what a trial birth can be; I wouldn’t insist.”

She flashed me a wistful glance. “I grew up by myself, and it was . . . lonely. I would like to have at least _one_ , in the future.”

“Edith . . . .” I hesitated. Her frame was so slight, and although I knew nothing about childbirth beyond what Lucille had gone through, the very thought of Edith doing the same made me uneasy. “It _can_ be dangerous.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But so can many _other_ things, Thomas. It’s not something to undertake right now of course but I would not be averse to trying for a child at some point.”

I thought of Edith, little belly round with a baby. Our son or daughter. Of Edith nursing a child, cooing to it, and the sweet pain of that was so powerful that I found myself dry-mouthed. I nodded to her.

“If you wish it, then yes. You will be a splendid mother I am sure.”

The image stayed with me, and I tucked it away into my memory, feeling protective of the idea. A baby would mean a future, both for Edith and myself, and the notion moved me deeply.

That night, after supper with Ian and Miles, Edith and I strolled the deck one last time before turning in. The _Morgana_ had made good time and we were told that we would be within sight of England by noon of the next day. At the moment the stars were bright overhead and a waxing moon gleamed in the sky. I marveled at how far we had come, both in distance and in matters of the heart, and how much further we had yet to go.

Edith’s arm on mine tightened, pulling my attention from my thoughts.

“Make a wish,” she murmured, pointing overhead, were a pale thread marked a shooting star.

Foolish fancy, but I did. I wished that all would turn out well for us. I suspect Edith made the same wish or something close to it since neither of us divulged our whims.

When we retired for the night, I bathed Edith, preparing the water, washing her from brows to toes, and plaited her damp hair into a thick, glorious queue that hung to her waist. She permitted me my indulgence, pink-cheeked and amused but I found the process to be soothing to me; a way to reassure our intimacy.

“You are my love,” I murmured to her as I carried her to bed. 

“And you are mine,” she replied, making it clear by kisses and touches that I was to join her under the covers. When I hesitated, Edith caught my face in her palms, adding, “Soon it will be risky for us to enjoy each other; please---tonight, let us give ourselves _truly_ to this marriage, Thomas.”

And we did.

Edith took me in her arms and slithered under me, kissing me softly at first, and then with more intent. When she began to nip my skin I moaned in delight, grateful that she not only understood how much I enjoyed it, but also seemed to take some pleasure in it as well. Those little needles of pain mingled whetted my salacious appetite. By the time I leaned forward, ready to breach her slick cleft, Edith’s nails had scraped me, and as I thrust into her, she growled pleasurably against the joint of my neck and shoulder, her little teeth and tongue at work there.

I found the little indentations on my skin in the morning and smiled until I realized who else might see it the marks.


	14. Chapter 14

The _Morgana_ arrived at Liverpool just after noon, as predicted, and it was with genuine sadness we parted with Ian and Miles; they were staying on the ship for its final leg to London in the morning. Both Edith and I had become fond of the gentlemen, and would sorely miss their companionship. They too, expressed and urged us to write when we could. 

“Who knows, maybe Miles and I will come visiting over the holidays,” Ian told us with a smile. “We could play whist while waiting for Santa.”

“Father Christmas,” I nodded, wishing such a visit were possible. “Yes, we shall see. In the meantime, God speed you both and thank you a thousand times for your good company!”

Edith made sure to exchange addresses and was understandably quiet after we’d come down the gangplank to the passenger dock. Around us, the hustle and bustle of luggage, other travelers and all their confusion added to our disorientation as we tried to regain our land legs. We managed to hail a cab and booked a room at the Green Swan Inn, which had been recommended to us by one of the pursers.

“Tomorrow,” Edith sighed. “More travelling tomorrow. You truly did come a long way when you chose Buffalo.”

“It was worth it,” I told her as I kissed her forehead. “Rest. I have a few errands to run but I shall return soon.”

I left Edith to nap, and made my way down to the street, feeling both buoyed and cautious now that I was back in England. While it was good to hear accents I recognized, and handle currency familiar to me, it also reminded me how soon we would be heading north, and into danger.

Every step closer made me aware of how _much_ danger there would be, and so with that in mind, I made my way down the street to a shop I’d inquired about discreetly. A few streets over, I found it, passing over the threshold and looking around with care.

Clean, respectable. Slightly busy. I waited my turn behind a stout woman holding a resigned little dog in her arms.

“Charlie’s still not regular, Mr. Dundee, and it’s been two _weeks_ now. His wind is something terrible!” she brayed, making me turn my face aside lest she catch my smirk.

The chemist didn’t seem surprised or amused. “So the plum syrup didn’t do the job, eh? Well I’ve got a calomel elixir with a little cod oil; that should put a quickstep into him, Mrs. Beel. One spoonful in the morning and another at noon. Make sure he has access to the necessary and he’ll be fine in a day.”

“I hope so!” Mrs. Beel rolled her eyes so dramatically I felt like applauding. “Nothing worse than a cranky granddad griping about his backside.”

I waited patiently while the bottle was blended, packaged and sold; the woman waddled off, little dog still tucked under her arm as I stepped up to the counter.

“Afternoon sir, how can I assist you?” Mr. Dundee asked me, looking up from his till.

I did my best to look uncomfortable; not a difficult thing to do, and leaned forward, keeping my voice low. “This is _very_ embarrassing but I’m only recently married and this is all new to me . . . well, my wife . . . is in . . . pain. Of the female sort, if you understand my meaning.”

He did, giving me a sympathetic glance. “Ohhhh. Yes sir, I _do_ catch your drift indeed. Does your missus have a regular tonic she prefers?”

“She mentioned Sydenham’s Tincture,” I murmured. “Thank goodness you, um, understand.”

“Yes sir, you’re not the first husband who’s been sent to fetch it. I’d strongly suggest, though, that _you_ keep the bottle and administer the doses yourself—women who are in that, er, particular sort o’ pain, tend to want _more_ than the recommended amount, especially the first dose.”

“I see,” I murmured as Mr. Dundee unlocked a barred cabinet and pulled out a small box. Bringing it to me, he opened the package and revealed a square brown bottle within it. 

“I’ll include a pair of droppers for you to use as well. One heavy drop for each stone of your wife’s weight and she’ll be sleeping easily. No more than three day’s use per month though. Will that be all?”

“Oh, um, I’ll take a small bag of licorice and a copy of the paper as well,” I murmured. Briefly I thought of buying prophylactics, but chose against it for the moment, not wanting to make myself memorable to the man. 

Once the sale was completed I stepped out again, feeling a bit easier now that I had a way of keeping Lucille from making demands of me in the night. I’d have to be judicious using it of course, but at least it was available and with luck, effective.

I considered matters on my walk back, feeling by turns apprehensive and hopeful. I still loved my sister, and sincerely wished there was some way for the three of us to live in harmony but I accepted now that it would never happen. Lucille considered me hers, and would never understand my choosing Edith over her.

It pained me. I’d never like conflict of any sort, especially with Lucille. She’d rarely gotten angry with me, but when she had, the tempers of both our parents flared within her to the sort of rage that led to bloodshed. My habit had always been to appease her, and I understood now what folly that was, and how it was only a matter of time until it wouldn’t work anymore.

The train station was my next stop, and I purchased tickets for our trip north. Then the telegraph office to send a note to Lucille, keeping it short and direct; it would reach the depot and one of the men there would take it to the Hall before sunset. After that I posted the letters Edith and I had written while on the ship, and headed back to the inn.

If we had Lucille examined and she was found to be mentally unstable, what then? I considered the question carefully. My sister was healthy and could conceivably live a full life, so her incarceration would be for decades. I knew there were facilities closer than Switzerland, indeed the closest asylum was at Maryport, fifty miles north of Allerdale Hall. I wasn’t sure if Edith would want Lucille so close, but then again, if she was there I could visit and make sure she was being treated well.

Then I reconsidered what would happen should she escape, and that was enough to make me shake my head. My sister was many things, but foremost among them, unforgiving. If Lucille were to be recommitted, I would have to insist it was far enough to keep her from easily seeking vengeance should she escape.

Because, I realized, I now had a wife and potential family to protect.

*** *** ***

Both of us were feeling quiet and thoughtful throughout the rest of the day. Edith and I took a walk along the docks, arm in arm, taking comfort in that closeness. I did my best to keep my words light, and I sensed she was doing the same, but by the time twilight fell both of us were a bit melancholy. 

We did not make love; instead we took a long bath together. The Green Swan’s accommodations included a tub of decent size; nevertheless it was an interesting exercise in fitting ourselves into it along with water and soap. We spooned, lazily scrubbing and soaking, and I found myself feeling sentimental at how such a simple act comforted me. Edith’s small shoulders with their spattering of freckles were irresistible and I kissed them, along with her nape.

“Tomorrow all this changes,” I whispered to her. “Tomorrow I must become somewhat distant to you, and preoccupy myself with the clay extractor but it’s for your own safety, Edith.”

“I know,” she murmured back. “And tomorrow I shall have to look at Lucille and pretend I don’t know about her, and you, and that she will be slowly murdering me.”

I wrapped my arms around Edith’s wet frame, pulling her back against me, burying my face along the side of her throat. “We will survive. If all else fails I will do what I must.”

She went still against me. “Truly, Thomas? If it came down to it, you would . . . kill Lucille?”

I drew in a breath. “Yes. I . . . I’ve been partially responsible for what she is, and I cannot permit the murders to continue. If I must, I will, Edith.”

We said nothing more for a long time, and after the water went tepid, we climbed out and dried each other in our preparation for bed. As we climbed in, Edith rolled to face me, settling into her comfortable place at my side before she spoke again.

“You know I believe in ghosts, and I thank you for never mocking me about that,” she told me.

“I very well couldn’t since I’ve seen a few myself.”

“Mine are . . . my family. My mother has come to me several times trying to warn me I think, and since his death, my father as well,” Edith sighed. “I cannot help but think neither of them wants me to continue this journey.”

“Yes, well that’s entirely possible,” I admitted. “Perhaps those who have passed have a better view of our futures than we do.”

“I think so,” Edith agreed. “My father cannot say a word, although he shakes his head at me, and my mother tells me to beware.”

A chill rippled through me. “Beware?”

“Yes. Something about crimson.”

She slept soon after that, but I did not for a long time.

*** *** *** 

The trip from Liverpool to Carlisle took four hours and the coach to the depot took another three. Both Edith and I were somewhat sore after the jostling ride but the weather held and as we turned up the hill to view Allerdale Hall the sight of it was enough to make Edith smile.

That is, until we got closer. I had never before felt my poverty so keenly, and while the house still had an imposing presence it was clear from the decay that it had been on the decline for at least half a century. I saw Allerdale Hall for what it truly was, and that knowledge cut me deeply.

Edith however, looked impressed. “Far grander than the drawing!”

I lifted her down and handed the reins to Billy, who came forward to take them. At his heels came the little Papillion who seemed delighted to see us. Edith took to him instantly, and I felt glad of it since he deserved someone who would dote on him. With care I scooped Edith up and carried her across the threshold, the pup following us into the main foyer. Gently I set Edith down again, murmuring something about the hole in the roof and giving us a moment to bolster our courage.

There stood Lucille on the first turn of the staircase, elegant in the shadows, her eyes glittering. 

Then I turned and held my arms out to my sister, smiling as broadly as I could. She glided down the steps and into my hug, her grip strong as we embraced. I smelt again her perfume, felt her rounded curves pressing against me.

“Welcome _home_ . . .” she whispered in a salacious tone meant for my ears alone, her lips dangerously close to where Edith had bitten me.


	15. Chapter 15

I was never prouder of Edith than I was that afternoon. She smiled sweetly at Lucille and kissed her; Lucille looked like a cat receiving unwanted petting. They began to take the tour of the house and while they did so I took a moment to speak with Billy, to unpack the tincture bottle, and to move our luggage into the rooms.

In the kitchen I found the tea along with the dried yew leaves tucked away in the back of the cabinet. For a moment I was tempted to throw them away, but if they went missing, that would definitely set off Lucille’s suspicions. Pine needles would substitute and I vowed to make the exchange the first chance I could. They would look and smell much the same, I hoped.

went back out to the extractor and climbed over it, checking the exposed gears. They needed oiling and would on a regular basis now that the colder season was coming. Strange that as I looked it over, I wondered what Carter Cushing would have thought of seeing the real machine rather than the model. Would he be impressed? Would he offer suggestions or merely scoff at it even now? 

I would never know.

And if it worked—if it finally, actually _worked_ . . . what a difference it would make for all of us. I briefly let myself imagine the debts paid, the hall restored . . . and yet I knew that even financial security would not make Lucille happy. No, she would still just as surely kill Edith simply because of me.

I gritted my teeth and busied myself with the gears. 

A few hours later as sunset fell I went in and washed up, taking care to do so before dinner. As I moved my collar and checked my reflection in the glass I noted that although the bite mark had faded considerably, it was still there. I would have to be careful to keep it covered the next morning when I shaved.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Lucille had grilled sausages—burnt them in fact, and I exchanged sympathetic looks with Edith as we all choked down the charred meat over stilted conversation. 

“I was thinking we might consider hiring a cook,” Edith offered gently. 

“You’d _never_ get anyone to take the position,” Lucille replied in that blandly cutting way of hers. “The trip out and back is too much travel each day, and having someone stay on here is _out_ of the question entirely—none of the locals would consider the position.”

“Oh,” Edith replied, and after a long moment added, “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to advertise, and certainly it would free you up from the burden, Lucille. I’ll write to the paper tomorrow and place an ad. Perhaps I could inquire about getting the roof repaired as well.”

“With winter coming that’s an _excellent_ idea,” I nodded. “It will definitely help save the flooring below.”

Lucille shot me a questioning look but I kept a smile on my face as I chewed the charcoal sausage and choked it down. We managed the rest of the meal in silence, all of us uncomfortable.

When Edith went for her bath, Lucille cornered me in the kitchen, glaring as she banged the dishes on the sink. “Intolerable! I’ll be very glad when this one is gone. Hire a cook? Repair the roof? Who does she think she _is_?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say ‘mistress of Allerdale Hall’ but I held back as Lucille slipped her arms around me from behind. I didn’t stop washing the dishes, not even when she laid her head on my shoulder. “I missed you so, Thomas,” my sister murmured. “Come to me tonight, after the whey-faced chit is asleep.” Her hands slid around my hips in a familiar caress and I fought not to respond.

“Not tonight. She’ll be nervous and won’t fall sleep easily,” I replied. “Tomorrow, after we tire her out.”

Lucille harrumphed but didn’t argue; I deliberately splashed water down the front of myself and she pulled her hands away as she straightened up. “You’re probably right,” she grumbled. “At least she’s willing to drink tea. How soon until her funds are secured?”

“A few weeks, perhaps a month. I tried to get matters settled before we left, but in the wake of her father’s death . . .” I trailed off, wondering if Lucille would say anything.

She looked at me and smiled, confirming my suspicions. I watched her pick up a towel to begin drying the plates that I had washed.

Going to bed was agonizing; I knew Lucille would be spying through the keyhole for a while, and being so close to Edith but unable to speak openly to her was difficult as well. Fortunately Edith seemed to understand, and kept her conversation to generalities, or simply spoke to the pup, who basked in the attentions. Finally, after we’d settled in under the covers, I managed to whisper to her. “Be restless. She’s watching us.”

“That’s horrid,” came her soft reply, but she fidgeted every few minutes even as I rolled away from her and curled on my side. By listening carefully, I heard the slight creak of the floorboards outside the master bedroom, and knew when Lucille finally slipped away nearly a quarter of an hour later.

A few minutes more and I finally shifted to my back. “Have you fallen asleep yet?” 

I couldn’t see her, but I felt her slide closer and the added warmth felt wonderful.

“No,” Edith assured me. “When was this mattress last aired out? It’s like a rock.”

“Probably ten years ago,” I admitted. “You did an admirable job today.”

“I tried,” Edith murmured. “Do you know she showed me the most _obscene_ book when we toured the house?”

My face reddened. “That was Father’s, although _why_ she would do so—”

“She was trying to find out if we’d consummated our marriage,” Edith responded softly. “I told her no, that you’d been very respectful of my mourning and I think she believed me. Honestly, if your sister was trying to shock me, she failed.”

“Part of the cat and mouse game I suppose,” I replied, trying not to grin at Edith’s matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes. Anyway, the book was locked in a desk—is that the one with the asylum papers in it?”

“Yes, they’re in the left hand side drawers. If you can get back there and take them, you can read them at your leisure out of her sight.”

“All right. When can I post mail?”

“Generally I drive out twice a week to the depot, although Billy is willing to take anything out there for a few coins since he passes that way. If you have it ready before the end of the day, I’ll give it to him.”

“Good,” Edith murmured her voice much sleepier. I let her curl up against me and held her until we both fell asleep.

*** *** *** 

The next day over breakfast, Edith presented Lucille with a gift: new sheet music. I suspect she bought it before we’d left Buffalo, seemingly ages ago. Lucille looked genuinely surprised, and definitely uncomfortable, taking the bundle and staring at it while Edith simply smiled. “I thought you might like these. The music store manager told me there are a few challenging pieces in the collection but I assured him you were an excellent musician and would do them justice. I hope that wasn’t too forward of me.”

“No, that was very . . . thoughtful of you,” Lucille finally murmured, and looked up. I caught a hint of true confusion in her eyes and realized that my sister had no proper idea how to respond to a gift, particularly one that catered to her talent. She gave Edith one of her smiles, but I could tell it was a mask. 

Later, when Edith had gone to take the puppy outside, Lucille turned to me, her expression harsh. “ _Why_ did she do that?”

“Because she admires your playing and wanted to give you something nice,” I assured her. 

Lucille scowled. “Well I don’t _like_ it.”

“Are the pieces too difficult?” I asked, lightly goading her even though I put on a bland expression. 

Lucille looked down at the bundle, picked it up and headed to the stove. Once there, though, she hesitated, seemingly caught up in the topmost composition.

“If you genuinely don’t want them, then simply tuck them away,” I murmured gently. “But if you learn at least one of the pieces, it will go a long way in allaying Edith’s suspicions.”

Lucille looked up, seemingly grateful for the compromise. “Yes,” she agreed, “that would be a _clever_ thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

I nodded, feeling a pang of pity for my sister. She swept out of the room with the music in her arms and I watched her go, seeing her through a new perspective now; realizing how emotionally . . . incomplete Lucille was. It also dawned on me that she hadn’t said ‘thank you’ either.

The rest of the day was spent figuring out the proper gear ratios for the extractor, but I did remember to hand Billy the letters and some meager payment for taking care of the puppy. When I went inside around mid-afternoon I found Edith coming down the stairs, her expression serious.

“Ghosts,” she murmured to me, wide-eyed.

I risked reaching out and cupping her cheek. “Your mother?”

“No,” she replied. “ _Yours_.”

I flinched.

Edith looked up, towards the direction of the master bath. “She’s . . . I didn’t scream when I saw her but it was a near thing. Thomas, this house is . . . painful.”

“Yes,” I agreed, knowing exactly what she meant. “It’s lived a long time, and not always a good life.”

At that moment Lucille glided into the main hall and startled us; I pulled away. 

“It’s chilly; I’ll fix us all some tea,” she announced.

Edith and I exchanged looks. 

“ _I’ll_ do it,” I volunteered. “I think Edith wanted to ask you about . . .”

“Ah . . . turning the mattress. In the master bedroom,” Edith continued quickly. “I’m having a little trouble sleeping on it.”

I left them and stepped into the kitchen, pulling out the tea and shifting the jar with the yew so Lucille would think I used it. It was a few minute’s work to set the kettle on and lay out the cups and saucers but nerve-wracking just the same, especially when both of them came into the kitchen. 

“I know it will be a little bitter at first,” I murmured, “But it’s a local specialty and good for your health.” This last was to Edith, who gave me a wan smile.

Lucille, however, was smiling broadly. “How _kind_ of you to brew it, Thomas. You’re such a good brother,” she purred. 

I poured for us all, and noted that Lucille was watching Edith intently, waiting for her to take a sip.

Edith did, grimacing a moment later. “It’s . . . strong.”

“All the better to help you rest,” Lucille replied, and gave me a smug look.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you again for the feedback; I love knowing what you think of the story!_

That night I doctored Lucille’s soup with the tincture, hoping I’d gotten the dosage right; I judged her to be around ten stone and added the drops before bringing all our bowls to the table. It was cabbage soup, heavily peppered and filling despite being a plain supper. Edith asked me questions about the extractor and I shared my minor success, keeping an eye on Lucille all the while.

When we all retired, my sister gave me a slightly glazed but meaningful look which I returned. 

I followed Edith upstairs and under the presence of helping undo the buttons down the back of her dress, whispered to her. “I’ve given Lucille a good dose of laudanum.”

“Clever,” Edith murmured. “That should put her to sleep quickly.”

“Yes. I’ll have to check but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Seeing Edith’s slightly crestfallen expression I took the liberty of kissing her neck and adding, “It’s necessary, darling. I _shall_ return.”

After climbing into bed and making a pretense of going to sleep, Edith and I waited for half an hour and I slipped out, giving her a supportive glance before taking a candle and making my way to Lucille’s boudoir.

A mingled fear and arousal swept through me as I entered that all-too-familiar room, and it was difficult to push aside the erotic stirrings as I slowly strode over to my sister’s bed. For years this had been our trysting place, and that fact wasn’t easy to forget, especially in the candlelight. I looked and saw Lucille lounging back against the stacked pillows, her peignoir ribbons untied. She slowly opened her eyes and gave me a languidly seductive gaze.

“How delicious you look tonight,” she murmured drowsily. I set the candle down and leaned over her, allowing Lucille to reach up and cup my face in her cool hands. She brought my face to hers and kissed me, tongue slipping into my slack mouth. Pulling back a moment later, Lucille frowned. “Thomas?”

“Sorry,” I replied, and gave a little cough. “I think I’ve got a cold coming on.” 

Lucille sighed, letting one hand slip down my chest to rub my nightshirt. “Poooor darling. It must be difficult having to sleep next to such a chilly fish night after night. Come, climb into bed and I’ll warm you up nicely.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and could you rub my back? I think I strained it a little.”

“Of course,” Lucille grumbled. I slipped under the covers next to her; she shifted and began stroking my shoulders with one heavy hand as I rolled away from her.

“I was trying to be optimistic at dinner but honestly, I don’t think the new part from Scotland is going to work at all,” I began, deliberately keeping my voice a slow and soothing monotone. “It’s a bit too small and although Billy and I have fitted it as best we can it’s still not functioning as it should. We’ll run it again in the morning but it worst comes to worst I may have to re-measure and order it again, which will be considerable expense but there you have it.”

Her touch had slowed considerably now as I rambled on.

“It’s probably too late to get anything remade before the snow starts falling which won’t help either but I’d rather be safe and order it as soon as I can so I can make a decision about whether to continue with this version of the extractor or to build one on a smaller scale and try it out by the northwest corner.” By now I was nearly whispering, waiting for any sort of response from Lucille.

“It may be difficult to extract any clay once a hard freeze comes and that may be part of the issue too. I suppose this means I’ll have to make the claw edges of each scoop longer by at least two inches.”

She’d stopped touching me, and her breathing had become regular. I risked looking over my shoulder and saw Lucille had finally fallen asleep thanks to the combination of drugs and inane chatter. I gave her a few moments more to slide into a deeper sleep, and then slowly extricated myself from the bed, slipping as quietly as I could from her room and back to the master bedroom where Edith was waiting.

I locked the door and made my way to the bed, sliding under the covers and into the blessed warmth as Edith turned to press up against me.

“Out,” I told her. “I bored her to sleep.”

Edith burst into giggles that she muffled against my shoulder and I laughed as well, a sense of giddy relief along with general amusement at the deed. My plan had worked, at least for this night.

“As if _you_ could ever be boring in bed,” Edith murmured in my ear, making me shiver in anticipation. “What did you talk about?”

“My . . . machinery,” I replied.

Just at that moment, Edith slid her hand across my thigh and lightly caressed me. “I think you’re very good with your . . . machinery.”

All I could do was groan. Edith shifted over me, pulling my nightshirt up and off as I helped do the same with her gown, both of us struck by a mutually reckless sense of desire. I rolled, pinning her under me, and Edith responded by grazing her teeth across my cheek, licking a stripe from there to my ear before breathing hotly into it. “Remember, we must be careful.”

“Yessss,” I growled back, heat and tension surging through me. I wanted her so very much. I kissed Edith deeply, pulling back to lick her pretty mouth and throat, bringing my kisses lower, to the pert buds of her breasts, teasing the tips of them with the lightest of nips.

Edith arched up, rubbing against me, one leg snaking around my hip, her lithe body wonderfully warm. I rocked against her, my breathing harsher now, especially when one of her hands slid down to encircle my engorged erection, stroking it in a slow tease.

“Teach me how to kiss it,” she whispered, her words against my mouth. “Please?”

I know I gasped, feeling fresh lust coursing through me at her request. This particular act was not one I received very often; I suspected Lucille disliked it because of Father. Consequently I was always made to feel guilty requesting it, and Lucille only used it to seduce me into her schemes when other means had failed.

“Edith, you needn’t—” I tried to say, but she purred and kissed me again, cutting off my protest.

“Quid pro quo,” she murmured, pressing her teeth against the other side of my neck. I shuddered in delight.

“All right, a little,” I managed in a strangled tone, hoping I didn’t disgrace myself by spilling at the mere thought.

Edith rolled me onto my back and straddled me, sitting low on my thighs, her lovely hair a tousled cloud of gold over her shoulders. Her hands reverently touched my erection, and she shot me a questioning look.

I took a breath, tucked a pillow behind me to sit up a bit, and caught one of her hands. “My shaft can be handled firmly, my bollocks _not_ so much.”

Her free hand touched the tangle of fur trailing down my stomach and then up along the ridged length of my erection as she bent closer to examine. I fought to control my breathing since the sight of her, the very feel of her was exquisite.

With guidance I showed her again what stroking felt best to me, and she smiled doing it, clearly enjoying making me groan and rock my hips.

“Eeeeeeedith . . .” I warned, trying to stay calm and grinning just the same. 

She grinned back, and with a sudden dip of her head, licked the head with her hot little tongue. I bit my lips to stifle my gasp; Edith looked up at my expression and smirked. “I think you _liked_ that.”

“Yesss,” I admitted, and before I could say more, Edith repeated the action.

For several feverish moments I fought hard against my urges to thrust as she slipped her lips around my erection and toyed with it, forcing me to test my own self-control. When I had reached my limits I reluctantly lifted her chin and she looked at me, her own eyes glittering.

“Must. Stop.” I managed, and pulled her up along my body, rolling with Edith until I was between her welcoming thighs. She frantically guided me, gasping as I thrust into her.

“Love . . .” she managed, and tightened her legs around me as we found our rhythm together, shaking the ancient mattress under us in ways I’m sure it hadn’t moved for decades. I bought her hand between us, encouraging Edith to pleasure herself as I concentrated on staying steady, staying in control. No easy matter for me at this point; I found myself ever nearer to my own crisis.

Edith arched up, her lovely cleft tightening around me as she gave herself over to her climax, moments later I forced myself back, withdrew and in a few quick strokes of my hand let myself spill across her bare stomach, panting as I did so.

Erotic I suppose, but necessary and unfortunately messy. I immediately reached for my nightshirt to wipe it way and kiss an apology along her stomach. Edith stroked my hair as I worked my way up her body, planting a final kiss on her smiling mouth.

“Thank you,” I managed. “Thank you so much, Edith. You are _wonderful._ ”

She wrapped her arms around me and encouraged me to settle on her; I tried to keep most of my weight off, but Edith protested and pulled me down. “Shhhhhh. Sleep now. Tomorrow I’ll make sure to wash your nightshirt.”

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow didn’t bear thinking about, and I relaxed, enjoying my moment as Edith’s duvet as we both dozed blissfully for a while. Finally, though, the chill drove me to climb under the coverlet and I listened to the wind rattle the house for a while as Edith slept on.


	17. Chapter 17

“The case history for your sister lists her as admitted to Blackthorne by Doctor Chatterston, and his initial diagnosis was ‘moral insanity’ which meant the attending doctors felt she had Pritchard’s definition of such, to wit: "madness consisting in a morbid perversion of the natural feelings, affections, inclinations, temper, habits, moral dispositions, and natural impulses, without any remarkable disorder or defect of the interest or knowing and reasoning faculties, and particularly without any insane illusion or hallucinations,” Edith read to me as we walked towards the family mausoleum.

The day was bright, but cold and I knew we had at least an hour to ourselves since Lucille was bathing. I’d offered to show Edith the structure, knowing we could speak freely on the walk to and from it, taking the puppy along with us. Edith brought along a handful of pages from Lucille’s file that she’d folded and put into her pocket, now she had them out.

“Morbid perversion . . . that’s a strong if apt description I suppose.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a perversion so much as a complete _lack_ of those aspects of human nature,” Edith sighed. “This diagnosis might be old but it _is_ accurate.”

“Yes, and she’s gotten no better since it was made,” I pointed out. “What was the last assessment or recommendation?”

Edith shifted a few of the pages as we walked on. “Ah, here it is. Patient L. S. has made some progress in the practicalities of daily living and shows remarkable aptitude in musical skill; however her enduring deficiency in natural and normal feelings, affections, inclinations, temper, habits, moral dispositions, and impulses continue to make her a danger to society unless carefully monitored. She has been implicated in several acts of violence both before and during her time at the asylum as noted elsewhere in her files. It is recommended she remain in institutional care; should she be released into custodial care, it is strongly urged she have limited access or exposure to society in general.”

I gave a nod. “I remember that part. When I explained to the doctor at Blackthorne that Allerdale Hall was fairly isolated he agreed to give me custody.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, although he wasn’t pleased that we would be returning to a site associated with so much grief and trauma,” I told Edith. “But at that point there was no money to live elsewhere; what little we had left was tied up in the clay mining operation.”

We’d reached the mausoleum and I pulled out the crypt key from my waistcoat, polishing it there for a moment before working it into the lock of the door. Edith glanced back at the Hall before bending to pet the puppy.

“Here we are . . . generations of Sharpes lie here; the others are down in the churchyard outside of Allhallows. Mind the first step . . .” I reached back to offer Edith my hand and we descended the six steps down into the stone crypt. Faint light came through the barred windows above but it still took a moment for our eyes to adjust. I cast a glance at the first vault on the right, feeling a pang of sorrow thrum through me.

Edith caught my gaze and I felt her hand slip into mine, her warmth both physical and emotional. Not trusting my voice, I squeezed her fingers in appreciation. The dank smell here competed with the chill but at least the gloomy atmosphere here was honestly come by and I cleared my throat, turning to Edith.

“Here they lie—my great grandparents, my grandparents and Father along with assorted aunts and uncles. I used to come out here as a boy and read because it was so quiet. My favorite place to curl up was just there . . .” I pointed to an empty niche, “between those urns. It’s the quietest safest place here at Allerdale Hall.”

Edith nodded. “Yes, the dead and their ghosts _belong_ here. Is this were . . . your wives are?”

I shook my head, shamed. “No. Lucille . . . I believe she put them into the clay wells under the house.”

“You need to move them _here_ ,” Edith told me firmly. “That will give them rest.”

“What?” I looked at her, suspecting some jest, but Edith held my gaze firmly, her sweet brown eyes solemn.

“Put them to rest among the other Sharpe dead, Thomas. One of the reasons they’re restless is that they’re not on consecrated ground. Your mother’s not here?”

“No,” I admitted. “I believe _her_ ashes are . . . in Lucille’s room, among her things.”

“She should be the first to be moved, then,” Edith told me, and took my hands, softening her tone. “There’s another reason for it, Thomas, a very important one. If officials ever come back to Allerdale Hall, they may search the place. Should they find the bones of those women in the house, both you and Lucille will be arrested. But if the bones are _here_ , they’ll simply be a few remains among many others already in these vaults.”

I saw the sense of it, even as I groaned inwardly at the amount of work it would involve, as well as the added issue of managing it around Lucille, but Edith shook her head.

“A bit at a time. We’re waiting for mail and in no particular rush just yet.”

I chewed my lip before speaking. “Nevertheless, Lucille is . . . cunning, and always watching. We need to head back even now, you know.”

Edith nodded and stepped away from me, climbing the steps and moving out into the sunlight. I lingered behind for a moment, laying a hand on my son’s vault before heading after her and into the clear air.

I stepped around to the back of the Mausoleum and passed under the pines there, scooping up a large handful of dried needles from the ground and tucking them into my pocket before re-joining Edith on the long walk back to the house.

The rest of the week was a strange time of close calls and tense moments followed by some degree of normalcy. Edith wrote, and walked the puppy and dutifully drank tea now brewed with pine needles instead of yew while I divided my time between work in the extractor and clandestine chores that included fishing out the crimson-stained bones of my former wives and bundling them neatly into old canvas tarps.

One of the few blessings was that Lucille was on her courses and thus not interested in me carnally for the moment, although she did demand my attention in other ways. I sensed she was far more jealous of Edith than she had been of the previous wives. Certainly she was far more curt and cold to her, making every effort to make Edith unwelcome.

Edith though, was far more composed. “The ghosts warn me,” she said one morning as we sat in my workshop. “I know when Lucille is coming or when I am approaching where _she_ is.”

“It sounds as if they’re . . . protecting you,” I murmured, caught between amusement and a wistful sense of awe.

“I think perhaps they are. Maybe they know I want to make matters right for them,” she sighed, looking down at her hands. “No-one should be left with unfinished business in the afterlife.”

“You’re so different,” I told her, caught again in the delicate strength that seemed to define her. 

Edith blushed. “From who?”

“Everyone,” I assured her, giving in to the desire to kiss her. She returned it with interest, and matters might have gotten a bit _more_ interesting if Lucille hadn’t barged in with a tea tray and a falsely bright expression on her face. I had trouble hiding my resentment. I knew in truth that a confrontation was coming, and whereas before I might have avoided it, part of me now actually relished the thought of standing up to Lucille. 

My glare didn’t go unnoticed, and later Lucille accused me of sentimentality. “Really, Thomas, it’s just _like_ you to get overly fond of someone beneath you. She’s simply a means to an end, like all the others, and she’ll soon be gone. Then, my darling, we can live in peace.”

I wasn’t convinced. When I collected the mail along with a copy of the local newspaper, I spotted an article that spoke of two recent mysterious deaths near Braithwaite village; a child run over by an unknown person along the road to town and a vagabond found with his throat slashed not more than a mile from Allerdale Hall. Since Lucille was in the habit of going to the depot, or for a ride when the weather was better, it wasn’t hard to hold a degree of suspicion. 

I showed her the paper, studying her reaction, and her lack of one chilled me. She gave the story a brief glance and shrugged. “What of it? Children die all the _time_ , careless little creatures, and as for the tramp, who knows who _he_ offended?”

“Tell me you had nothing to do with either of them,” I challenged her.

“If it will make _you_ feel better,” Lucille murmured, “although you’re being terribly mawkish about strangers.”

When she went to begin preparing dinner, I stole up to her bower and quietly began to look around her things. Mother’s urn was there, back behind a pile of picture frames so I took it. Apprehension kept me tense; I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for, but I knew something among the mounted moths and glass jars would give me my answer.

I found it moments later when I pulled open one of the drawers of a little keepsake box, and four plaited coils lay on the velvet lining. Dumbly I stared, knowing full well where each specimen had come from. I shut the drawer, but my hand was shaking badly, and I ended up knocking another little box off the dresser. 

Little shapes spilled out of it. 

Small human teeth.


	18. Chapter 18

With care I cleaned up the spill and replaced the box, my heart thudding hard in my chest. I held my panic at bay with a growing sense of anger, anger that had been building in me for ages, I realized. Lucille, my beloved sister, the _one_ person who had always protected and cared for me . . . was truly a heartless killer. Not just for survival, or for our immediate needs, the way I’d always believed. No, Lucille murdered because she enjoyed it. Every moth and butterfly in the room was testament to that, and certainly the souvenirs I’d just found indicated she’d advanced her deadly interest to larger prey.

I suspected if I looked back through old newspapers I’d find other stories of victims, not only here but possibly in the cities we’d visited as well. I wondered if Carter Cushing had been her only murder in Buffalo; she might have had time for others before she left . . . I felt sick at the thought.

It had to end. 

Earlier in the week I’d had to handle the fragile remains of Margaret, Pamela, and Enola, which had been difficult, but the bitter pain of acknowledging my part in their deaths had changed me both then and now. I was no innocent, but at least I understood what we’d done was wrong.

I made my way out with Mother’s urn and moved through the house, looking for Edith as the gloom of twilight darkened the halls and passages. Eventually I found her in the downstairs parlor, brushing the puppy, who wagged his tail as I entered. I set mother’s remains down and looked at Edith, who saw something in my expression that made her pause.

“Thomas . . .” she murmured, concerned.

I moved closer to her, aware that Lucille was only a few rooms away. “Time is short, Edith, shorter than I wish it was. Lucille is far, _far_ more dangerous than I suspected, and I doubt we will survive any _civilized_ attempt to have her recommitted.” I told her in a low voice. “I’ve found evidence of . . . other murders.”

She paled. “What shall we do?”

“For the moment, please take Mother’s urn to the crypt,” I replied. “At least that obligation can be fulfilled.”

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. I moved closer, stroking her cheek, taking comfort from her steady presence.

“Thank you. I know it’s dark and a little frightening, but take the pup with you and a lantern.” I passed her the crypt key, adding, “When you’re done, go to the stables; I’ll come for you when it’s safe.”

“Thomas--”

“Shhhh,” I tried to smile reassuringly at her. “This has been a long time in coming, Edith. I might not have _ever_ come to my senses but for your love and faith in me. Please, trust me one more time.”

She darted forward and kissed me, little tongue caressing mine for a moment. I savored it and pulled back reluctantly, urging her on. Edith gave me a last glance and headed out as I went upstairs on an errand of my own.

The first snow had started to fall; fat flakes drifted past the windows. The entire house seemed quiet, as if muffled by the falling snow. Or maybe it was simply that the ghosts had been laid to rest and now Allerdale Hall was empty of old pain and grief. I couldn’t spare much thought for the answer, however, caught up as I was in the hard truth of the betrayal I was about to commit.

I came back down the stairs and made my way into the kitchen where Lucille had just taken the kettle off. The scent of jacket potatoes drifted from the stove, and a pang went through me at the memory of the many times those had been our only meal. Lucille looked up at me and smiled. “Where is Edith?”

“My wife is out, probably with the puppy.”

As I watched, Lucille made a face. “Your _wife_. I think not; if anyone deserves that honor it’s certainly not _that_ whey-faced ninny. I’ve increased her poison by-the-by; we can always _help_ her sign her name from her deathbed.” She glided over and put her arms around me, giving me a seductive glance.

I didn’t smile back, and looked to where the three teacups sat on the table. “You truly _enjoy_ this, don’t you, Lucille?”

She hesitated, and slowly let her arms drop from around me. “Oh it’s a bit rich to be judgmental _now_ , isn’t it, Thomas? You know we’ve always done what was necessary, and truth to tell, it’s not difficult for me to . . . dislike these strangers living with us.”

I picked up the kettle and poured, turning away from her. “It seems to be more than _just_ the ones who have lived with us.”

Lucille shrugged, taking a deep sip from the teacup I offered her before speaking. “The world hasn’t exactly gone out of its way to make _our_ lives easy; I see no reason not to return the favor.” 

“But the _risk_ , Lucille. We weren’t supposed to do anything to draw attention to ourselves!” Agitated, I took a heavy swallow of my tea, glaring at her over the rim.

“No one cares,” she told me with confidence. “It’s as I said; people die every day, all around us, and if a few of them are . . . helped along the way, so much the better. Once we have Edith sign her bloody name _anything’s_ fair game with nobody to say differently. She’s so small I could just knock her down the stairs with a sweep of my hand and oh wouldn’t _that_ just be a shame.”

The open menace in Lucille’s voice sent a spark of true fear through me. “Lucille---”

She gulped the rest of her tea and slammed the cup down, exasperated. “What? That _is_ the plan, isn’t it? The damned poison’s taking too long, and I’ve had such _fun_ thinking of all the ways she might die. Maybe down the shaft of the elevator, or perhaps I could dump her into one of the clay wells and simply keep hitting her head as she tries to surface. Or oh, _I_ know! Perhaps she can fall into those sharp-toothed gears of the extractor . . . you _did_ say the gears didn’t work right anyway and we might not even _notice_ the blood in the red snow . . .”

I grabbed Lucille by the shoulders and shook her. My sister was tall, but I was stronger and had taken her by surprise; she gaped at me.

“No! You’re not to _touch_ her!”

Lucille’s expression flickered from shock to anger and I felt her tense under my hands. “You . . . you can’t possibly _care_ about the mewling little brat!”

I said nothing, but for once I held her gaze, hard as it was to do. I’d spent a lifetime appeasing my sister, but no more.

And she saw it. Lucille’s stare widened, her mouth trembled. “No!”

“Yes,” I managed, noting that her pupils had contracted to little points now. “No more killing, Lucille; not Edith, not anyone else!”

“You don’t love her, _say_ you don’t love her! I’ll stop, I promise, just tell me you still love _me_!” she shrieked, fighting my grip.

“I do love you, but . . . the way I am _supposed_ to,” I tried to explain. “As a brother, not as . . . .” I trailed off because Lucille had started to pant a little as she squirmed, breaking my grip. I took a step back.

“As a lover? As you promised me you would forever? Always together, never apart?” she cried. “Oh Thomas, NO!” quicker than I thought she could, Lucille swept up one of the knives and thrust it at me. Pain burned through my chest as the blade plunged in just under my collarbone and I staggered.

She jabbed again, closer to the shoulder.

“Lucille--!” I stared at her, and she thrust once more, but I’d found one of the skillets and swatted her hand, knocking the knife loose. Lucille simply pounded me with her fists, forcing me back against the stove.

Time. I needed time for the laudanum to work through her system but my sister fought like a tigress, smacking me, hitting with her fists, wetting them in my leaking blood.

“I _gave_ you everything, endured _everything_ for you, Thomas! You were always _perfect_ and I knew if I _made_ you love me I would be too, but no, not even all the monstrous horror that I’ve done for love, you . . .”

And other burning sting, this one across my cheek; Lucille had broken one of the tea cups and slashed at me with it. My body felt slow and broken even as I tried to keep my sister away for me. I stumbled, burning my hand against the stove.

“You never loved me, you _controlled_ me,” I accused her, bitterness tinging my words. “You kept me as your personal plaything, used me to keep yourself free.”

Lucille gaped at me, and her expression shifted, the bitterness blending with hate. “Oh you _ungrateful_ little brat! You’re just like Father, like Mother, always making _me_ the villain!”

I stumbled away from the stove, aware that I was bleeding in three places now, and that my senses were going numb. Lucille stumbled after me, and I watched her pick up yet another knife. “Sooo weak and pret-ty, Thomas—you’d have never _lived_ if it wasn’t for me! I had to teach you _everything_ and this is how you repay me for all my sweet love? All those nights between my legs and you go running off because you haven’t the stomach for who I _really_ am?”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “I was a fool. I love you Lucille, but those little souvenirs in your room show me _precisely_ what you are.”

She snarled, lurching towards me and I ran. Or tried to, anyway but my legs weren’t cooperating terribly well. I managed my way through the foyer, slipping a little on the snow that had accumulated there, and stumbled out through the front doors. Snow had piled up over most of the seeping clay but the yard still looked like a battleground.

I turned, hoping the opiate had slowed my sister, and she finally seemed to be feeling the effects as she wobbled her way down towards me, knife held before her. “Thomasssss. I love you. I always loved you,” she crooned to me. “I love to give you your _pain_. No-one else will do that for you. No one else . . .” 

“That’s not true,” I huffed, pulling my collar down, rubbing the last, faint traces of Edith’s bite. Seeing it, Lucille gave a shriek and tried to stab me once more, but something swift came up behind her making a dark arc through the air. I watched the shovel hit her skull with a crunch, saw Lucille stagger as blood spurted out of her nose.

She turned, knife glittering in the dim light. “ _YOU_.” Lucille slurred with menace. “I should have killed you, bitch.”

Edith stood there, her hands clutching the shaft of the tool. “Me.”

Lucille feinted, but too slowly, and the next shovel swing caught her arm; I fell to my knees, my vest and shirt soaked with blood as I tried to stay conscious. My sister wobbled a bit. “I should have killed _you_ right after I killed your father,” she called out.

Edith swung again, and this time the crack of the shovel against Lucille’s head sounded like a gunshot to me. My sister dropped face down into the red snow, and as my vision began to grey out, I heard Edith speak.

“I heard you the first time. Good- _bye_ , Lucille.”

I tumbled into the snow myself as everything went black.


	19. Chapter 19

The next time I opened my eyes it was still dark, but I was warm and in pain. Quite a lot of pain. I groaned, trying to focus on the room which was unfamiliar to me. Sitting up wasn’t possible, so I rolled my head to look around. White curtains, plain walls: I was in hospital. Muzzy as I was, I recognized Edith, who was curled up on the other bed in the room, and seeing her, a wave of tenderness rolled through my soul.

She’d saved me. In so many ways.

I would grieve for Lucille, I knew; the days ahead would be time enough to deal with that loss. But in this moment my heart lightened at the sight of my wife. I sighed and the sound must have carried because Edith opened her eyes. She struggled to sit up, her hair falling out of its pins but she didn’t seem to care as she slipped off the bed and came over to me, crouching to examine me closely. “Thomas?”

“E-Edith,” I replied, blinking my blurry vision clear in the dim light. “My love.”

”Should I call the doctor? Are you in pain?” she asked, brushing a cool hand over my forehead. Oh how comforting that little touch was and how I savored it.

“A bit . . . we are . . .”

“The sickroom at Allhallows,” Edith told me. “It was the closest facility to Allerdale. Doctor Merring has been taking care of your wounds, and in a week or so you’ll be released to come home.”

I nodded, which hurt. My chest ached under the heavy bandages and the gash along my cheek stung a bit. 

Edith leaned closer. “Stitches,” she told me. “They had to put them in on all your wounds. It’s nearly dawn and you’ve lost a considerable amount of blood. The police will want to talk to you tomorrow; I’ve already told them that Lucille attacked you and I came to your defense. I also told them about her time at Blackthorne and mentioned our writing to the doctors there about her.”

“Good,” I managed in a croaky tone. “True. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she told me, although her own voice quavered. “I . . . I heard the two of you arguing in the kitchen. She tried to . . . she could have _killed_ you, Thomas!”

“Laudanum,” I whispered. “I tried to poison _her_. Couldn’t let her kill you, or anyone one else.”

“I know,” Edith murmured. “Rest now, and I’ll see if the nurse can give you something for the pain.”

I closed my eyes again, relief making me weary.

*** *** ***

Over the next two weeks I grew stronger and more impatient to leave Allhallows. Doctor Merring was patient, and Edith spent as much time as she could with me, but my mood alternated between irritation and fatigue as I recuperated. Police Inspector Harold Atterly from Carlisle came out to speak to me on the second day, taking slow notes about Lucille as I answered his questions. He seemed particularly interested in her behavior up to the attack, and her general temperament.

I gave what answers I could, which seemed to satisfy him. Inspector Atterly assured me that the inquest would probably be brief, given the facts already known, and that I could expect a summons with a few weeks.

The only bright spots during that time were two letters I received in the mail Edith brought me during her visits: a cheery note from Lee and Ian, and another one from a mining company in Edinburgh. While I was glad to know our friends had settled in and found London to be fascinating, I was more interested in reading that the Raeburn Brick Company was interested in investing in my extractor. 

I nearly wept, so overcome was I at this unexpected good luck. Yes it was amazing that my work would finally pay off, and that we would be able to re-open the mines, but there was a part of me that mourned the fact that Lucille would never know of it. For all the evil in her, my sister _had_ also supported my work for many years.

Still, I knew even a steady income wouldn’t have changed her nature, and that what I did was right. It didn’t make it any less painful to bear at this point, but perhaps with time I thought I might be able to accept what I had done. Edith had no qualms and I envied her that. She protected me and avenged her father, both actions I understood completely.

And there was the pain, of course. Doctor Merring explained that one of the knife wounds had pierced the top of my right lung, and that while the other one wasn’t as deep, it had nicked a vein. The burn on my hand wasn’t too severe, but he tutted over the gash along my cheek. “I’m afraid you will _always_ have a scar there, Sir Thomas; it will fade with time, but the edge was jagged.”

I could accept this and told him so, thanking him for his quick care.

He gave a pat to my hand, his expression suddenly haggard. “Yes well I know matters up at the hall were always . . . difficult, even in your mother’s time. Rest up, young sir.”

Edith came every day, bringing the puppy with her. “I’m calling him Fleet,” she told me as he hopped onto the bed, snuffling me happily before she pulled him away.

“For the river?” I teased.

“For his speed.”

We both played with him a while, and when the pup had settled down at the foot of the bed for a snooze, I spoke to Edith, holding her hand. “So now . . . what shall we do?”

“About?” she returned, although the half-smile on her lips told me she understood my open-ended question. Taking pity on me, she sighed. “About all of it . . . well, let’s see how things stand after you’re back on your feet.”

It was good advice, and for the next few months we followed it.

*** *** ***

The inquest ruled Lucille’s death as manslaughter under aggravated circumstances and Edith was exonerated. The coroner believed the death to be an accidental result of self-defense and with that, the matter was closed. We had Lucille cremated and a few days after that I myself scattered her ashes on the wind, watching the fine dust of my sister drift away like tiny dark moths across the snowy lawn of Allerdale Hall.

I did weep for her then, even as I let Lucille go.

Within a few weeks of my return, representatives of the Raeburn Brick Company came to call, and I was able to demonstrate the extractor to their considerable enthusiasm. They offered a primary contract that gave me a very good percentage for every extractor built to my design, and a secondary one to begin preliminary work on re-opening some of the mines a few miles away from the Hall. Edith and I celebrated that night by waltzing in the foyer, and later, making love in my workshop—a fantasy I’d been eager to fulfill and one that vastly amused her.

By Christmas we’d repaired the roof, and Edith had hired a cook, three maids and handyman to take care of the place. Furniture was dusted, floors swept and mopped, glass gleamed and the entire place had taken on a more stately demeanor. We invited Ian and Lee to visit and received them warmly, pleased to renew our friendship.

“Nice little place you have here,” Lee told us after dinner while we were having sherry by the fireplace. “Do you ever get lost trying to get anywhere?”

“I know, it’s terribly large for just the pair of us,” Edith admitted. I had to agree—despite its grandeur, Allerdale Hall was more than either of us wanted or needed. Now that the clay mines underneath would be sealed for good in the spring, it would be far more stable, but no less sizable.

“You could always do something else with it,” Ian remarked, and by the tone of his voice I knew he had a suggestion in mind. 

I offered him more sherry. “Such as?”

He let his gaze sweep around at the parlor. “Make it a sanitarium.”

For a moment I said nothing, but instead looked at Edith. She held my gaze in return and we had an entire wordless conversation in those three seconds, ending in perfect agreement.

“Tell us more,” Edith smiled.

Ian shrugged, rising up and strolling around as he spoke. “You’ve got a lovely location, you’re close to the railroad, and Allerdale Hall has more than enough rooms for patients. Fresh air, close to lakes and the ocean . . . those who suffer from weak lungs would benefit greatly from a stay here.”

The idea had merit, and the four of us discussed it long into the night, coming to no firm conclusion on the matter, but the general feeling was hopeful. Once abed, Edith draped herself over me, as was her habit, and kissed my chin, murmuring, “You _like_ the idea.”

“I do,” I admitted. “The thought of Allerdale Hall as a place of healing holds appeal to me in atonement for a lot of darkness and pain, Edith. And if we made it into a sanitarium, it would leave _us_ . . . free.”

“Free,” she echoed.

Our lovemaking that night held a passionate intensity that left me breathless. Initially Edith had held back from nipping me, concerned about my healing injuries but I made my desire for it known, and the added thrill of her little teeth teasing my earlobes and throat and nipples had me shuddering in pleasure under her most of the night.

Despite her daylight demureness, I was realizing how bold and demanding my little wife could be, and how much she enjoyed driving me to distraction in our intimate moments. All these wonderful things I was learning about Edith buoyed me up through my moments of doubt and grief; I returned the favor as best I could. I read her rough drafts and talked to her about nearly everything under the sun.

I fell more deeply in love with her day by day. When New Year ’s Eve came, we toasted in the new century joyfully. 

*** *** ***

We did indeed turn Allerdale Hall into a sanitarium, partnering with Ian and Lee on it. While part of me felt a pang or two at seeing my childhood home change, the changes to the hall were remarkable. Gone were the dark walls and dreary interiors; instead, the walls were done in robin’s egg blue with white trim; the floors in white and gold parquet. The outside brick had been steamed clean, lightening the color of the building by several degrees. Groundskeepers had created lovely formal gardens with a low maze hedge and a croquet court and several birdbaths.

The entire place looked much more inviting and open, but both Edith and I agreed that Allerdale Hall still had too much recent history for us to want to stay there. We’d begun looking for another home and in April found a fine old stone house overlooking Morecambe Bay for a very good price. Edith and I shared the topmost floor as a combined workshop and writer’s den, with its lovely view of the sea. 

We filled our home with mementos of our travels, for travel we did—New York City being our first trip. Edith published three books and I designed three different versions of my extractor, all of which Raeburn Brick Company bought. The mines north of Allhallows opened again, and soon we had enough income to help expand Allerdale Hall, adding the Lucille Sharpe Wing.

The only thing marring my complete happiness is the knowledge that Edith is ill. She has been unable to keep her breakfast down these last few mornings, and cannot stand the smell of kippers. She’s told me she needs to speak to me about a very special matter . . .


End file.
